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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292285">hands full of matter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork'>simplyclockwork</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fever, First Kiss, First Time, Gun Violence, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock in Serbia, Sherlock is hurt, Violence, Whump, emotional angst, injuries, mentions of torture, smugglers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:14:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is captured in Serbia, Mycroft cannot afford to involve the British government in his rescue. Instead, he sends John. After two years spent thinking Sherlock was dead, John finds himself navigating not only Sherlock’s rescue but their fractured friendship as well.</p><p>Originally posted May 20th for the 2020 Holmestice Exchange, date changed upon reveal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>563</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020, Medium Length Works to Read</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/gifts">UrbanHymnal</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Original Prompt:</b> Mycroft doesn't come to Sherlock's rescue—John does. Maybe John figures it all out and goes rogue; maybe Mycroft sends him because he can't appear to be getting the British government involved. Regardless, John is the one who finds Sherlock being tortured and Sherlock is in far worse shape than he appeared in the show. Now John has to not only bust Sherlock out and smuggle him across borders while still being chased, he also has to care for Sherlock's injuries and figure out how to mend their badly broken friendship.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Title inspired by the poem <i>Love Letters</i> by Sarah Manguso</b></p><p>  <i>I didn’t fall in love. I fell through it:<br/>Came out the other side moments later, <b>hands full of matter,</b><br/>waking up from the dream of a bullet tearing through the middle of my body.</i></p><p>  <i>I no longer understand anything for longer than a long moment, or the time it takes to receive the shot.<br/>This kind of gravity is like falling through a cloud, forgetting it all,<br/>and then being told about it later.<br/>On the day you fell through a cloud... </i></p><p>  <i>It must be true. If it were not,<br/>then when did these strands of silver netting attach to my hair?<br/>The problem was finding that you were real and not just a dream of clouds.</i></p><p>  <i>If you weren’t real, I would address this letter to one of two entities:<br/>myself, or everyone else.<br/>The effect would be equivalent.</i></p><p>  <i>The act of falling happens in time. That is,<br/>it takes long enough for the falling to shear away<br/>from the moments before and the moments after,<br/>long enough for one to have thought<br/>I am falling. I have been falling. I continue to fall.</i></p><p>  <i>Falling through a ring, in this case,<br/>would not mean falling through the center of the annulus—<br/>a planet floats there.<br/>Falling through the ring means falling through the spaces<br/>between the objects that together make the ring.</i></p><p>  <i>On the way through, clasp your fists around the universe:<br/>Nothing but ice-gravel.<br/>But open your hands when you reach the other side.<br/>Quickly, before it melts.   </i></p><p>  <i>What did I leave you?</i></p><p> </p><p>Special thanks to InkAtHeart for the beta!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>The words feel like being shot all over again. Tearing through flesh and bone to find their mark, threatening to drive John to his knees. </p><p>“What did you say?” </p><p>Mycroft’s mouth tightens. His eyes dart to the side in a surprising display of shame and he refuses to meet John’s stare. “Sherlock is alive.”</p><p>John’s left hand tenses. Fingers flexing, nails scrabbling at callused skin, he forces the tremour to isolate. “How? How is that possible?” The words fly from numb lips, fitting between clenched teeth and gritted jaw. </p><p>“John—”</p><p>“No. <em> No. </em> Mycroft, I saw it. I <em> saw </em>him. He was—there was so much blood, it was all over the…” John loses the battle with his left hand, the vibrations thrumming through his fingers. “God, Mycroft, if this is your idea of a joke, it’s sick. It’s fucking <em> sick.” </em></p><p>The look of shame falls away and Mycroft’s face shutters. “John, I need you to listen to me.” Stepping forward, he reaches out hesitant hands to grip John’s shoulder. John shakes him off. “John.”</p><p>“Don’t touch me, Mycroft.” The steps John takes to widen the distance between them is not enough, not nearly enough, but they help settle the violence in his body. “Explain what you’re talking about and <em> don’t fucking touch me.” </em></p><p>The glare shot his way is more familiar in that it was deeply Mycroft. It almost returns some semblance of normalcy to John’s tilting world, almost sets it right. Mycroft speaks again, and John’s world tilts far enough to tumble over the edge, into absolute madness.</p><p>“Sherlock is alive, John. And he needs you.” </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>The plane ride is endless. Head braced against the window, John watches the veins of London streets fade into miniature replica, then disappear into smog and thick, white clouds. He’s tense and the seat is firm under his body, reminding him of open-sided helicopter rides over blowing sand, beneath the baking sun. John closes his eyes to the memory, the sound of semi-automatic guns rattling in his head.</p><p>Tucked in a backpack are his own gun, passport, and a GPS device. No phone, lest it be tracked. A few other gadgets he has only seen in military order catalogues and a soldier’s wet dreams. Mycroft’s instructions repeat in his head, a steady drone under the hum of the plane. Wetting his lips, John remembers.</p><p>“<em>Sherlock is being held in a compound. Serbian. It was the last part of Moriarty’s network. I was in touch with him two weeks ago. I haven’t been able to locate him since but intel tells me someone was captured in the nearby woods. I have a contact inside, someone who can disable the alarm system but nothing more. I cannot afford to involve the British government in this matter—it has to be you, and you alone.</em>” Hesitant, Mycroft had ducked his head. “<em>John, I cannot confirm whether Sherlock is still alive. If he is...he might not be the same. You know my brother better than anyone—</em>”</p><p>“<em> He’s alive, </em> ” John’s words cut into the space between them, heavy and final. “<em>He is.</em>” Mycroft had fallen silent. His open mouth held a challenge in it, but the expression on John’s face must have been enough to subdue further argument.</p><p>Opening his eyes, John watches clouds pass by the window.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>John’s service career prepared him for many things. It taught him how to kill a man with bare hands, with a gun, through a scope, with nothing more than blunt-force trauma. How to hold life in his hands, blood seeping between spread, splayed fingers, and to dig for faint signs of survival against skin stained with blood and sand. It taught him how to close off and empty himself. To leave room for violence and none for second thoughts. There was no room for remorse when dragging heavy boots through endless sand, and there is no room for remorse here, in the cold Serbian terrain. </p><p>Mycroft had offered him the pick of weapons. An array of high-powered, unfamiliar guns, each more dark and sinister than the last. In the end, it had not been a question. The Sig fit him like his own hand. </p><p>Out in the blowing wind and sideways snow, John feels whole with familiar cold metal digging into his fingers. </p><p>There is a knife in his other hand, and the gun brings enough control through fear when pressed against the back of a guard’s head for John to draw the blade, sleek and quick, over the man’s heaving throat. The blood spills hot and crimson while the man collapses. John shuts his eyes to the sight, focusing forward, moving onward. There will be more men and now is not the time to listen to the faint whine of his conscience. </p><p>Stripping off the guard’s uniform, John buckles and buttons the clothing over his body before letting the corpse crumple to the icy ground. Without hesitation, he raids the man’s pockets, lifting away a semi-automatic rifle. The strap settles on his shoulder, gun hanging off his chest. The weight is familiar, reminding his body of Afghan sunlight and obliteration until he shakes it off. </p><p>John moves forward at a crouch. There are two other men patrolling the perimeter of the squat, ugly building. Hunched against the trunk of a tree, he watches their progress. They cross, meeting by the door to exchange rough-sounding words and slow nods before separating. They look cold and bored, and John weighs the pros and cons of killing them now over later. He decides on now: if all goes well, later will entail escaping with Sherlock. Without knowing his condition, John cannot be confident in his ability to fight on their way out. </p><p>John pulls the dead man’s stolen hat low over his face. The inside is lined with some kind of fur, sticking to the sweat on his forehead, beading in spite of the biting wind. Creeping forward, he falls into the beaten path circling the compound, keeping his head down and staying alert until he meets one of the other guards. The man speaks in a thick language, none of which John understands. John smiles and shrugs his shoulders, hoping for the best. </p><p>When the man shoots him a strange look, John puts a bullet in his face, letting the body drop to bleed out in the snow. </p><p>The last guard is easier, approaching with a wide smile and a wave, passing on without speaking. John smiles back before sinking a knife into his back when it turns, ripping sideways to tear through crucial organs. </p><p>Whistling over the snow, through the trees, the wind is an eerie companion following John into the compound. It pushes against his back with impatient fingers, forcing him through the door and into semi-darkness. As if waiting for him, the overhead lights flicker, surge, and go black. </p><p>Either Mycroft’s inside man cut more than just the alarm system, or the storm raging outside killed the power. Either way, John hovers in the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The walls are concrete and steel, no windows to light his way with moonlight, and it takes precious seconds for John to make out shapes in the gloom. There is a pair of very expensive night vision goggles in his backpack, costing more than John cares to consider. With a reluctant thought of gratitude for Mycroft’s foresight, John slips them on. </p><p>Gun lifted and steady, vision a wash of green and black, he moves deeper into the compound. There is a strange silence before hell breaks loose. A man barges from a side door, yelling something John cannot understand. Through the goggles, he sees the man’s eyes are wide, roving blindly, feeling his way down the hallway with his hands on the wall. A rifle, strapped over his chest, hangs at his side.</p><p>John puts him down, bullet whispering through the silencer attached to the end of his handgun. It is his fourth kill of the night, the knowledge humming at the back of his head. </p><p>There will be time for remorse later when Sherlock is safe and they are far away from this hellish place. Leaving the man on his knees, John continues onward.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>It takes longer than he’d thought to scour the building. Men fall beneath his gun and the glinting blade of the knife while John searches. When he finally finds the right room, the guard outside is young. To John’s shock, he is wearing headphones.</p><p>John cuts him down with two bullets, wincing at the youth in his slack face. Any uncomfortable sentiment is wiped away when he enters the room behind him, using the dead man’s keys to unlock the heavy, old-fashioned door handle. </p><p>Inside, another man lunges to his feet, knocking aside the stool he had been perched on. A muffled report from the handgun erases his face, tipping him backwards as a second tall, heavily-built man surges toward John with a snarl. His face is twisted, teeth bared in an almost inhuman expression that John hardly notices. All he can see is the whip in his hand and the limp figure hanging from chains, strung up like a pig carcass in a butcher shop. A bullet would be a kindness—not one John plans to give. </p><p>Stunned by his rage, the man catches John off guard, landing a wild punch on his bad shoulder. John’s face twists and he falls back. Ducking left, he slams his body into the man’s side hard enough to send him staggering. Before he can regain his footing, John’s hand slashes forward, arm moving in and across. The blade opens the man’s abdomen with sick ease, spilling him to the floor in a growing pool of red before John steps away, leaving him to die a painful death on the cold ground.</p><p>Wiping the knife clean his thigh, John tucks it into his belt, shoving the gun against the small of his back. Breath shaky, too slow for his burning lungs and racing heart, John turns to the man hanging from the chains. His body is limp, collapsed at the end of his tethers, long, tangled hair obscuring his face. Reaching out, the tremours returning to his formerly steady hand, John grips a sharp chin, tilting the face upward, into faint torchlight. </p><p>Sherlock’s face is dark with bruises. Blurred by filth, the Cupid’s Bow of his mouth is split and clotted with blood. Rage rises in John’s throat. Eyes closed, Sherlock is unresponsive, only a fluttering pulse and rasping breath against John’s palm when he holds it in front of his open mouth.</p><p>“God, Sherlock.” John touches his fingertips to a cheekbone, the hard jut disrupted by a dark bruise. Sherlock winces, eyelids twitching but remaining closed. “I’m here. I’m taking you home.” A low moan answers and nothing more. The sound drags ice over John’s skin, followed by a flash of white-hot fury, hammering his heart against his ribcage.</p><p>Getting Sherlock down is no small feat. Choosing between leaving him to hang from his arms by cutting the chains around his ankles, or dumping him to the floor, John chooses the latter. He does his best to soften the landing, even though Sherlock still hits the ground and crumples into a heap as soon as the chains around his wrists are removed. John unshackles the restraints from his legs, pausing to close his eyes. Bile rises in his throat, forced back only long enough for him to shift away and gag stomach acid onto the stone floor.</p><p>Lying on his front, limbs loose, Sherlock’s back is a mess of crisscrossing wounds. The mark of blades, lashes from the whip John saw in the torturer’s hand, and blackened burns distort the skin, travelling down and over the jutting terrain of Sherlock’s too-prominent spine. He is thin, so much thinner than he ever was before John watched him fall from the roof of Bart’s. </p><p>Sherlock stirs. Twitching on the floor, he draws John out of his memories. </p><p>“Sherlock.” A pained groan answers. “Sherlock, it’s me. It’s John.” </p><p>Dropping to his knees, John lays a hand on the curved, marred back. Sherlock jerks away, body shivering with minute tremours. He makes as if to rise but his legs buckle, dumping him back to the ground with a broken gasp. John reaches out to touch again, fingers hovering over flesh blazing with fever and infection. This time, when John’s hand drops onto Sherlock’s shoulder, the man lets out a jagged cry. He reeks of fear, defeat and desperation, the breath whining from his throat making John’s chest feel tight.</p><p>“Shh, it’s okay, Sherlock.” The words are a farce. It’s not okay, not even a bit okay. John lies through his teeth, gently looping an arm around Sherlock’s torso to tilt him back, helping him sit up. Sherlock’s eyes go wide, wild, his struggling weak but renewed. They dart around, desperate, raking over John’s face without recognition. </p><p>With a flash of insight, John rips the hat off and pushes the goggles to his forehead, trying not to take Sherlock’s panic personally. The torchlight illuminates John’s face. Sherlock’s bleary focus fastens on him, the twitching of his limbs halting, ceasing before returning ten-fold, working through his body like an earthquake. One hand lifts, shaking fingers framing John’s face. </p><p>His voice cracks, ragged, but the word is clear, “John.”</p><p>Relief rolling over him in a crashing wave, John’s breath sighs out in a long exhale, emptying his lungs to the point of aching. “Yeah.” Eyes closing, he tips forward, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s. “I’m here.”</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>Moving through the compound is slow going with Sherlock leaning heavily against his side, arm hooked over John’s shoulder. The detective’s feet stutter and drag, reducing their progress to a crawl. John pauses to readjust, gun trained forward in his left hand, the right locked around Sherlock’s terribly thin waist. Every step draws a pained, huffing breath from Sherlock’s labouring lungs but John pushes forward, refusing to stop. </p><p>They are interrupted three times, twice by armed men John puts down with efficient bullets before their eyes can adjust to the darkness. The third time, a man wearing a stethoscope around his neck appears through a door. His stare is wide and terrified, turning cross-eyed when John presses the muzzle of the Sig against his forehead. His voice is a harsh demand, barked into the man’s frightened face. </p><p>“Medicine? First aid?” </p><p>The man shakes his head, no easy feat with deadly metal against his skin. His hands rise higher into the air, quivering. He says something in what John assumes to be Serbian. </p><p>“No, I don’t speak...” John grits his teeth around a growl. “Look, he needs help. Help? You understand help?” The man’s eyes grow wet and overfill, tears running down his face. John sighs. “Sherlock?” He gently nudges the man draped over his side. “Little help?” </p><p>Sherlock weaves, lifting his head just enough to mumble something in Serbian. The man’s face twists with shock, and he answers in a babbling, desperate rush. Leaning heavily against John, Sherlock mutters, “Down the hall, to the right. Third door. There’s an infirmary.” </p><p>“Okay. Good.” Looking the man over, John makes a snap-decision and lowers the gun, leaving a small imprint on the man’s forehead. “Go,” he says. When the man doesn’t move, John jerks his head toward the exit. “Go on, get out of here.” </p><p>At his side, Sherlock chokes something out in Serbian, prompting the doctor to nod, face flooding with gratitude before turning to bolt down the hallway. John waits, listening to his fading footsteps between his own steadied breathing. When he hears nothing like returning boots on concrete, he lets his body slacken, just enough to release the tight band of tension around his chest. Adjusting his grip on Sherlock’s waist, John pauses to press his forehead to Sherlock’s bent neck. “Come on. Little further.” It’s a lie, one they both hear in the unsteady tremour beneath John’s hard voice but neither comment on the illusion. Instead, Sherlock groans, pulling himself a little straighter to limp down the hall with John’s help. </p><p>The room they find is unlike any first-aid room John has seen. There is a case of surgical tools beneath the stainless steel sink, an IV kit, and various bottles of pills he doubts are Aspirin or Paracetamol. </p><p>Pausing to slip Sherlock onto a low cot, John grabs the heavy first-aid kit from the wall, recognizing the large cross on the nylon. With a handful of pills and water bottles, John fills his backpack. Sorts through the medications, pausing to ask Sherlock to translate the labels until he finds antibiotics. Sherlock answers in the negative at John’s query about medication allergies and tosses the case of scalpels, sutures, forceps, and surgical string into the backpack beside the pill bottles. He slips the bag over his shoulders, the first-aid kit fastened to the front, stolen machine gun hanging against his chest from the strap, and ducks to lift Sherlock to his feet. The man whines, the sound dying off into a choked whimper, legs nearly collapsing under his own reduced weight. Taking the brunt of his balance, John hauls Sherlock up. The detective’s eyelids flutter, eyes nearly rolling back into his head before he stabilizes. </p><p>Lips thinning, pressed tight together, John helps Sherlock dress in clean clothing he finds in a locker at the back of the room. Tugs a fur-lined hat over his tangled hair, longer than he’s ever seen it, the curls grown out into matted locks. Grabbing up one of the scratchy, grey wool blankets, John wraps it tight around Sherlock’s narrow shoulders, zipping a heavy emergency jacket overtop. The result makes Sherlock look bulky and strange, but doesn’t restrict his already limited mobility too much. Pulling on his own gear, John loops his arm around Sherlock’s waist again.</p><p>“Come on. We’re nearly there.” John’s murmured reassurance is hardly comforting, not when they are still standing in the complex, with who knows what between them and London. But it’s better than where Sherlock was when John found him, and that is progress. </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>The remaining navigation of the compound passes without resistance or aggression, and they stumble out into the cold. The snow has stopped falling, piling up in soft drifts, the wind still blowing bitter cold against exposed skin. Pulling up the necks of their coats, shielding mouths, throats and noses, John tugs Sherlock into the forest. He keeps to the trees, staying as low to the ground as possible with a semi-lucid man dragging at his side. </p><p>After staggering through woodlands, John’s heavy feet leave behind the snow-covered forest floor and hit snow-covered gravel. The sound of rocks crunching beneath the wet, white cover rips a grateful sob from his aching chest. At the sound, Sherlock groans, nearly sagging to his knees before John hauls him back up. </p><p>Leaning him against a tree, John digs the GPS out of his bag. The signal is spotty, but he manages to get a location. It isn’t very helpful. They’ve stumbled out on the opposite side from where John entered on his way in, leaving him with no idea which direction to turn. </p><p>His ultimate goal is to cross into Hungary, reach the airport, and fly back to London. Mycroft told him there would be a flight for them, bought and paid for, anytime, any date. How he managed such a thing, John has no clue, but he has long since stopped questioning Mycroft’s ability to pull the impossible from thin air.</p><p>Glancing at the GPS screen, John squints toward the North, fingers drumming against his leg. </p><p>He is cold, fingertips turning numb outside of the gloves while he manipulates the touchscreen. Behind him, Sherlock lets out a harsh, choking cough and John knows they have to find shelter. According to the device in his hand, there is a small town nearby called Vus. Their options are too limited to stand here and agonize, and he cannot assume they won’t be followed. </p><p>Tucking the GPS back in his bag, John slogs through the snow to Sherlock.</p><p>“We’re going to have to walk a bit further. There’s a village, maybe half a kilometre away. Can you make it?”</p><p>Sherlock’s face is pale, white as a sheet under the extensive bruises darkening the skin, but he nods. Another cough racks his thin form, barely held together by the layers, and John moves forward to support him once more. </p><p> </p><p>****** </p><p> </p><p>It begins to snow again. Fat white flakes swirl from the grey sky, landing on John’s shoulders and piling up the drifts at their feet.</p><p>Sherlock’s pace would be more fitting for a man twenty years older. Every step wrings a low, panting whine from his open mouth, eyes and face dazed with fever. The heat of him is strong enough for John to feel, radiating through the thick jacket and into his arm around Sherlock’s waist. It takes them nearly forty minutes to reach the edge of the tiny town, John keeping them close to the trees bordering the side of the gravel road. </p><p>The sound of an engine rattles through the snow, muffled by the falling flakes. Cursing, John drags Sherlock deeper into the woods, dropping them both onto their stomachs, wriggling into the snow. The cold is bitter, sinking into his bones and causing his bad shoulder to ache. Jaw clenched, trying to ignore the urge to shiver, John watches headlights reflect off the thick, foggy air, painting the area a dim yellow, reflecting off the snowdrifts. A large truck, rusty and loud, sways slowly down the road toward where they just were, tires ripping at the white covering the ground. The idling engine shifts to a lower register and John’s next breath catches in his throat, pulse thudding in his ears, as a panicked thought echoes in his head, that they are going to stop. The truck will skid to a halt and men will pour out, ripping them apart, taking Sherlock away, leaving John with a bullet in his body and failure in his mouth. </p><p>John tenses and grips the back of Sherlock’s stolen jacket with shaking fingers. His left hand is steady, positioning the rifle on his chest against a large rock peeking from under the snow. His breathing slows, evening out on a silent exhale moving hot over his cold mouth. He tugs the fabric covering the lower half of his face up again. Fingers numb, John curls a knuckle around the trigger, watching the truck labour down the hill toward the stretch of road before them. </p><p>No matter what, he will take someone down with him. Even if it only buys Sherlock a few minutes of freedom, too injured and sick to run, John will ensure him that time. </p><p>He stares down the barrel and waits. Heart hammering in his chest, John counts the seconds as they pass, ticking down the remaining time left in his life as Sherlock pants ugly, wheezing breaths at his side. </p><p>The truck skids, straightens and rumbles closer. John’s finger twitches, brushing the trigger. If he shoots the tires, maybe the vehicle will slide and tip, bringing casualties before his bullets pick off the remaining. </p><p>With his breath held in his lungs, strangled deep in his throat, John watches the truck drive past. His eyes follow it until the taillights fade into the swirling snow. Then, and only then, does he breathe again, air nearly choking him when he pulls it deep into his chest with a massive gasp. His body trembles, vibrating with adrenaline, demanding action or collapse. Fighting the urge to fall loose into the snow, John surges to his feet, thumbing the safety on the rifle and yanking Sherlock off the ground. The detective rises, groaning and shivering, the hair hanging out from under his hat wet and bedraggled with sweat and melted snow. </p><p>“John,” he pants, lips cracked and bleeding with fever. Smoothing soaked curls out of Sherlock’s bruised and battered face, John nods.</p><p>“I know. I know. Not much further, just over the hill. You can do that, right? Just over the hill?”</p><p>Sherlock’s heavy lids lift, eyes silvered by the snow and glassy in the dark. “You said that last time.” The murmur is low, lacking any expected bite, prompting John to tilt up and grip Sherlock’s shoulders. </p><p>“I know I did. But just one more. One more, I know you can do it.” </p><p>It is obvious from Sherlock’s ragged breathing and slack expression that he does not believe John, but he seems too far gone to argue further. Nodding, face tensing with pain as they fall into a slow, awkward pace, Sherlock leans on John and lets him lead them into the dark.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At first, John thinks he must be hallucinating. The cold has moved from his bones to his brain, slowing his limbs and forcing false images into his visual cortex. Every step forward is a tragic fight, eyelashes thick with ice, but if the shape ahead is a building, then he cannot stop. They have to reach it, even if it is a figment of his imagination. Better to die with hope than give up with the taste of despair on his tongue. Another lesson from the desert, which the falling snow doesn’t make any less true. </p><p>Sherlock long ago ceased to answer his voice. John had taken up talking to keep him cognizant and awake, but all he receives in reply is the unhealthy, wet rattle of Sherlock’s laboured breathing. His body is a leaden weight, one John drags along like the battle pack he carried in Afghanistan, Sherlock’s feet slow and scraping through the snow.  </p><p>The blurred shape in the snow solidifies into brickwork and icicles hanging from crumbling eaves. It’s a small shack with a broken window, through which wind whistles and snow scatters, gaping at them like empty, monstrous eyes. There is a chimney atop, the corner open to the elements from bricks that have fallen away. It looks dank, dirty, and dishevelled. To John, it looks like salvation.  </p><p>Sherlock chooses that moment to falter, feet tripping over the ground. His tilt is sudden and violent, pulling John halfway over with him as he collapses to his knees. </p><p>“No, Sherlock. Sherlock!” Dropping to his haunches, John grips the detective’s face between his gloved hands. The bruised skin radiates heat, and Sherlock’s eyes rove aimlessly in a face marked with twin spots of feverish red, set high on his cheeks. “Sherlock, come on. Sherlock!” No answer issues from the parted lips, just a harsh rattle from deep inside struggling lungs. John glances over his shoulder at the old building, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, and swallows a snarl. There’s nothing for it. Sherlock cannot walk any further, and they need to reach shelter.  </p><p>Mind made up, he stands, stripping off the gear and the rifle. Shaking the numb, dragging feeling from his limbs, John squats and stretches, breath huffing out in a loud puff. Still on his knees, Sherlock’s head lolls, body moving to crumple forward when he loses consciousness at last.  </p><p>“Oh, no you don’t.” Teeth gritting together, John kneels in front of him, Sherlock tilting into his right shoulder. “I didn’t fight my way through that godforsaken outpost and through these bloody woods just for you to give up now. <em> Sherlock.” </em> No answer, the body against his gone still, save for shallow, rasping breaths. Pulling frigid air into his lungs, made humid by the fabric over his mouth and nose, John shifts lower, setting his shoulder against the trembling chest in front of him. Arm looping around Sherlock’s waist, he pushes forward and lifts with a grunt, hoisting Sherlock over his good shoulder, arms hanging down John’s back.  </p><p>He is light, too light. But, with exhaustion in his mouth and fatigue in his limbs, the reduced weight is still a struggle and John’s knees shake, on the edge of buckling. With a growl, he forces his legs stiff, planting his feet until he finds his balance. </p><p>With Sherlock over his shoulder, John wades through the knee-high snow. The building is hardly more than four meters away and every step feels like a lifetime, Sherlock’s body a limp, unresponsive burden. Baring his teeth, eyes wincing half-shut to the driving snow, ice hitting against the bare skin above the mouth cover, John trudges onward with the same single-minded tenacity that carried him through a desert until a bullet brought him to his knees. </p><p>Reaching the shack is a relief, sinking deep through freezing cold skin. Refusing the urge to collapse and let the black edges darkening his vision take over, John shifts his weight against the door, pressing until the bottom scrapes and the knob falls away, rusted out. The door skids inward in a sudden rush, nearly dumping them into a heap inside. John finds his footing, catching himself on the doorframe to stay upright.  </p><p>The inside is strewn with leaves, debris and little piles of snow, not much warmer than outside. There is a dusty bed in the corner, comforter darkened and moth-eaten. John kicks the musty-smelling blanket aside, stooping to roll Sherlock onto the mattress. A low grunt emerges and nothing more, sliding into a strider-type gasp. Looking down at him, John is reluctant to leave his side. Their supplies, the thin line between survival and death out here in the snowstorm, are quickly becoming buried beneath swirling white. </p><p>Tearing himself away, John sprints outside, grabbing up the discarded backpack, first-aid kit, and rifle. He glances toward the trees and the road just visible through the skeletal branches. Seeing nothing but white and falling dusk, he turns back to the shack.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>It takes some time, kicking rotten leaves and snow out the door, covering the broken windows with silver emergency blankets, and surrounding Sherlock with several hot packs and the scratchy wool blanket before John feels satisfied with the bolt hole he’s created for them. Watching Sherlock shiver and mumble in a feverish sleep, John wishes for a fire. But he forces himself to wait. The truck is still out there, somewhere, and he has no idea how visible the smoke might be from the road. </p><p>He finds himself pacing, feet beating a stiff pattern over the creaky floorboards. Even exhausted, limbs weighed down by fatigue, John cannot rest. Adrenaline drives him over and over his path, boots kicking up dust with every thump. </p><p>Sherlock’s body jerks, gut-deep cough flecking his lips with spit. John is at his side at once, palm curving against the sweat-dampened forehead. The skin beneath is burning up, ablaze with an internal fire. Sweat soaks Sherlock’s hair, plastering it to his skull. The inside of the shack is still winter-cold, catching John between the need to lower Sherlock’s temperature and keep him from freezing to death.  </p><p>A low, pitiful groan drifts up from Sherlock’s open mouth and John is decided. Angling Sherlock into a sitting position, he removes the coat, gloves, hat and blanket, leaving him in just the stolen clothes from the infirmary room at the compound. Sherlock shivers, eyes rolling beneath his eyelids, and John frowns. Digging into the backpack, he finds a water bottle and one of the bottles of antibiotics. After a moment of hesitation, he pops one through Sherlock’s parted lips and helps him swallow it down with coaxing words and too much spilled water. </p><p>The night passes in a blur of exhaustion, John soothing Sherlock’s fever and chills as best he can in a drafty, cold shack in Serbian winter. He feeds Sherlock water and tends to his wounds. They are extensive, crossing over his back, digging cruel gouges into skin. Burn marks, whip lines, the leavings of a blade: John cleans each wound the best he can. Sutures and sterilizes and cleans away dirt and grime from half-scabbed slashes. </p><p>By the time the sun rises, lighting the cabin with faint yellow through the only still-intact window, John is weaving with bone-deep fatigue. He has not slept longer than fifteen minutes and his head is a mess.  </p><p>With Sherlock breathing in laboured gasps, John allows himself to collapse to the mattress. He keeps the Sig nearby, beside his steady hand, hoping he won’t sleep deeply enough to miss an ambush.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>When he wakes, it is near noon. Eyes gritty with sleep, John sits up, rubs his eyes and checks on Sherlock. The only change is his sleep seems deeper, though the fever holds, sweat running down his face. His hands are cold and John chafes them between his palms, staring at the closed door and plotting their next steps.  </p><p>Obviously, they cannot stay here. The shelter is piecemeal at best and Sherlock needs proper medical attention, beyond the half-assed effort John can offer him while hidden away in an abandoned shack. They need to reach London.</p><p>Still aching from missed sleep, he retrieves the GPS device from the bag beside the bed and finds their location. Dragging over the map, John studies the surrounding area. Flicks through tiny villages and larger towns and cities, trying to plot a course. Falling into the mindset of the soldier, John outlines their needs.  </p><p>First and foremost: Sherlock’s fever. The presence of infection is obvious, the detective’s body worn down and pushed well beyond its limits. John has no idea how long he was held in the compound, assumes somewhere around a week or more. The toll is clear as Sherlock pants through fever dreams, shivering under a thin, moth-eaten sheet John dug out of a closet.  </p><p>Second: avoid pursuit. Stay off the main roads as much as possible or find a way to duck past hostiles. John has no idea how to do that with a man who can barely stand, let alone run. They’ll cross that hurdle when it comes. </p><p>Third: they need more supplies. Food and water, if they are going to be at this for a while.  </p><p>Fourth: route. Glancing at the GPS, John plugs in the coordinates for the Budapest airport in Hungary. From there, a flight to London is less than 3 hours. From their current location, driving, the airport is a little more than 9 hours away.  </p><p>The heavy sense of defeat rises, threatening to overwhelm him until John forces it back. The odds aren’t great. He faced better in Afghanistan, even while bleeding out his life into the sand. This time, he is not alone, and that leaves him no option but to push forward.  </p><p>Dropping his face into his hands, John sighs.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>His eyes open to find night has fallen and Sherlock is finally lucid. His gaze is still glassy, face flushed, but there is a focus there John has not seen in two years. Not since Sherlock looked at him from the edge of a rooftop and plunged to his death. </p><p>“John,” he croaks. Staring back at him, John licks his dry lips and nods.  </p><p>“Hi, Sherlock.”  </p><p>Sherlock’s face twists, a soft groan when he turns his head to take in the unkempt scenery of the room, eyes flicking to a dead leaf in the corner and the blankets over broken windows. Turning back to John, he frowns. </p><p>“You’re safe,” John explains. After a beat, he adds, “Well. Safer.” </p><p>Sherlock shivers and John reaches out for the blanket, pulling it over the detective. Placing the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead, the detective watching him with rapt, curious eyes, John finds the skin clammy but cooler, nodding as he settles his hand back in his lap. Legs folded beneath him on the bed, back to the wall, John meets Sherlock’s look. </p><p>“How?” </p><p>John shrugs. “Mycroft,” he explains simply. Sherlock’s mouth tightens, folding into a thin line with the slow drop of his brows over his pale eyes. Sitting up, grimace broadcasting pained effort over such a simple action, Sherlock’s fingers fold around a handful of sheets.</p><p>“He told you.” It is not a question. John nods.  </p><p>“Yes. Not...everything.” Tilting his head, he glances at Sherlock, who doesn’t look up from his fidgeting. “He said you were alive and…” John frowns, clearing his throat before adding, “That you needed me.”  </p><p>Sherlock looks up at that, surprise flickering in his eyes. “And you came.” </p><p>A slight, humourless smile tugs at John’s lips. “And I came.”  </p><p>Looking at him, Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Why?” Such a simple word, it holds depths of confusion.  </p><p>“That,” John replies, stretching out his legs and stepping off the bed, “is a conversation for later, when we’re actually safe.” Moving across to the door, he flicks aside the corner of a blanket and peers out the window. When he turns around, Sherlock is still sitting up, watching him closely. His expression is strange and John tilts his head. Sherlock’s eyes slide away and John looks out the window again until Sherlock speaks again, his voice soft. </p><p>“John.” </p><p>Facing him, John raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?” Sherlock glances up from the sheets, some complex emotion working across his face. </p><p>“Thank you.”  </p><p>John shrugs, working his hands into the pockets of his stolen jacket. “Of course.” </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>Half a day later, Sherlock is moving under his own steam, pacing clumsy circles around the small room. Wall to wall, flopping onto the bed when his quivering legs finally force him to stop. John sits against the door with the rifle across his lap, hands settled with ease on the stock, watching. After dropping onto his back across the mattress with a frustrated sigh for the third time, Sherlock rolls his head to hang over the edge, looking at John. </p><p>“Do you have a plan?” Something in his tone makes John’s back stiffen. His shoulders jerk up a fraction of an inch, hardly obvious. Sherlock’s eyes track the movement regardless, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks when his eyelids lower. “What?” </p><p>John grits his teeth and looks down at the gun, tracing a finger over the cruel metal. “Nothing.” Out of the edge of his vision, he sees Sherlock’s mouth open and cuts him off, “I’ve been working something out.” </p><p>One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rise. “But?” </p><p>Looking up, John forces his jaw to loosen. He doesn’t quite succeed. “Excuse me?” </p><p>Sherlock’s lips twitch, a shadow of his former imperious superiority filtering through the bruises marring his face. “I heard a ‘but.’” The glare John levels in his direction wipes away the beginnings of a smirk. Sherlock blinks, suddenly uncertain. “John?” </p><p>John is forcibly reminded of the early days. Of a ‘drugs bust’ and Sherlock blinking at him with that same insecurity, asking, ‘not good?’ </p><p>
  <em> Please, God. Let me live.  </em>
</p><p>“Get some sleep.” John pushes his back against the wall, planting his feet beneath him and standing. “And take another antibiotic.” Twisting to flick aside the blanket and look outside at snow illuminated by a half-moon, John keeps his back turned. Listens to Sherlock’s breathing in the too-quiet room, followed by the sound of pills rattling in a bottle, spilling into a hand, and the creak of fingers wrapping around plastic.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>There is a town nearby. More of a village, really. A small collection of old brick buildings with a narrow road running through on its way to more populated areas.  </p><p>Keeping to the trees and dressed in stolen gear once more, John and Sherlock make their way closer to somewhere with electricity and running water. The rifle slung across John’s chest thumps against his sternum with every cautious step. Sherlock has the Sig and John’s left hand flexes, missing the familiar bite of gunmetal against his palm. </p><p>The first house they come upon is empty but not abandoned. Relief floods into John’s throat when he finds the door unlocked, darting inside with Sherlock a little slower on his heels, his face pale and ashen.  </p><p>An old truck sits outside, rusted but in good shape otherwise. John searches for keys while Sherlock drops into a chair in the corner of the front room, his body an unsteady tangle of exhaustion and long limbs.  </p><p>“I know you’re tired but I need you to look for food.” Crossing the room, John presses the backpack into Sherlock’s reluctant hands. “We can’t rest. Not yet.”  </p><p>Sherlock shoots him a hard look, opening his mouth to argue. John stares him down until he closes it, subsiding with a nod before rising to dig through an open pantry, stuffing packaged food inside with automatic movements. John doubts he is even checking to see what he picks up and suppresses a frustrated sigh, moving through the house to a small back bedroom to find it empty, the bed neatly made. </p><p>A crash in the main room sends adrenaline flooding through John’s body and he presses his back to the wall beside the door. Heart in his throat, he props the butt of the rifle against his chest and eases into the doorframe, taking in the scene with practiced eyes. </p><p>Sherlock is standing in the kitchen with his hands over his head, the backpack fallen at his feet. John winces before following Sherlock’s narrow-eyed stare to the man standing just inside the front door. He has an old-style gun in his hand, pointed at Sherlock. His fingers shake, the man’s face lined with age.</p><p>John doesn’t think he’s confident with the gun but the distance is short enough that it won’t matter. </p><p>“Put it down,” he says, the words barked as an order, sounding far more in control than he feels, watching Sherlock try to look bored with a gun pointed at him. When the old man glances his way in surprise, John falls into a stance burned into him by the desert sun, shoulders lifting and arms tense but smooth, the stock of the rifle settling into the hollow of his shoulder like an extension of himself.  </p><p>The old man’s eyes widen and he lifts his hands out to his sides, the gun held askance in one. John tracks the movement with the rifle’s muzzle, eyes unblinking. There is fatal precision in his limbs, his left hand still and free of tremour with the buzz of danger in his veins. John nods at the gun, jerks his head toward the floor. “Put the gun on the floor. Slide it to me.”  </p><p>When the man just blinks, John’s eyes narrow, realizing he probably doesn’t speak English. Licking his lips, he holds the gun steady and tries to plan his next move.</p><p>Sherlock interrupts, his voice cracking and raw in the silence. He says something to the man in Serbian, prompting the man to swing back to him. John tenses but the gun remains held aloft, muzzle toward the ceiling. Sherlock repeats whatever he said and adds something else until the man nods. His eyes dart to John, nervous. Sherlock speaks again, soft this time. Some of the fear leaves the man’s face and he bends, holding John’s gaze, to place the gun on the floor before shoving it over the pitted hardwood. The gun stops just short of John’s left foot. Bending, he kicks it into the bedroom behind him, keeping the rifle balanced against his shoulder. When he rises back to his feet, he crosses slowly to Sherlock’s side. </p><p>“What did you say to him?”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes flicker with something John thinks might be hesitation, disappearing before he can be sure.  </p><p>“I told him what you said. I told him we aren’t what we look like.” His brow furrows and smooths, voice lowering to the same soft tone he used on the man. “I said you wouldn’t hurt him unless you had to. And…” he swallows after a brief hesitation and adds, “that you’re a good man.” </p><p>Surprised at the sentiment, John almost turns to Sherlock. The man in the doorway shifts and he stops himself, centring his focus back along the gun. Before he can speak again, the man says something. He is speaking to Sherlock but looking at John, and John waits, squinting as the unfamiliar words wash over him. Sherlock’s brow furrows. </p><p>“What?” John glances at him, watching the man from his periphery. “What did he say?”  </p><p>“He said…” Sherlock frowns and asks something that the man replies to with a nervous glance outside. Sherlock nods and the man steps inside, closing the door behind him. John tenses but Sherlock lays a hand on his shoulder. “He said sometimes men come from the forest, hurt men with terrible wounds. Other men with guns always follow, taking them away.” His mouth tightens. “He wants to know if we are like those men and if someone will be coming to take us away, too.”  </p><p>“Does he help them? These men, the injured ones?” John stares at the man. “Ask him.” His voice rises, anger flaring sudden and hard. “<em> Ask </em> him.” Sherlock’s hand, still resting on his shoulder, tightens.  </p><p>“John,” he murmurs before raising his voice and speaking in Serbian again. The man frowns, answering quickly. Sherlock sighs. </p><p>“What?”  </p><p>“He said he is not looking for trouble. The men who come to take the escapees back are dangerous. He is old and tired and sick, he just wants to be left in peace.” </p><p>John snorts. “Don’t we all.” Letting out a sigh, his shoulders relax with reluctance. Dropping the gun to his side, he shrugs Sherlock’s hand off and bends to pick up the dropped backpack. Glancing inside, he frowns and bites his bottom lip. “Ask him if he’ll be okay if we take this food.” Sherlock shoots him a surprised look and John glares back. “Just do it.” </p><p>Sherlock does and the man hesitates before answering. Sherlock nods. “He says he will be fine as long as we don’t take the canned soup.” </p><p>John looks down again. “Did we take the canned soup?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Okay. Good.” Raising his eyes to the man, John says, “Ask him for the truck keys.”</p><p>Sherlock obliges and the man’s expression saddens. He nods after a moment and digs the set from his pocket. Separating one key from the others, he stares at it with reluctance, looking up again when Sherlock barks something at him. With obvious anger, the man hands the key over to Sherlock, who passes it to John.</p><p>“Thank you.” John looks at the man, who avoids his eyes and jerks his head toward the door. Sherlock translates, even though it isn’t necessary.</p><p>“He says ‘get out.’” </p><p>John nods. “Yeah, I got that.” Pushing past the man, trying not to think of the impact their actions might have, he crosses the yard to the vehicle. Sherlock’s footsteps, crunching through the snow behind him, tell John he is following.</p><p>The truck’s engine sputters before roaring to life and settling into a low idle. Curled in the passenger seat, Sherlock looks pale and exhausted, eyes closed, his forehead pressed to the window. The old man watches them from a front window. John watches back. No one waves and the truck makes a low growl when John shifts gears, turning to look out the back window as he reverses away from the brick house. </p><p>High above, the stars are winking into view, night falling over the road.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John drives until his eyes refuse to stay open. Guiding the truck onto the shoulder, he drops his head against the steering wheel, shutting off the engine. Silence floods into the cab. A glance in Sherlock’s direction shows him fast asleep, long legs curled against his chest, feet tucked into the seat. </p><p>A sigh slips from John’s lips, head thudding back against the headrest. The potential for danger prickles at the back of his neck but the ache for sleep is overpowering. His eyes slide shut and he lets himself drift. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The call of nature wakes him from an uneasy sleep, bladder full and demanding. With a groan, John scrubs at his face, reaching for his handgun and slipping out of the truck. Sherlock is still asleep, tilted over with his cheek against the door. John watches him for a moment, tracking the slow rise and fall of his chest, a dead man suddenly made living after two years of mourning an empty grave.  </p><p>His bladder aches, pulling his focus back to the matter at hand. Following a faint path into the woods, John walks until he can no longer see the road and just glimpse the truck through the trees, unzipping to relieve himself.  </p><p>As he tucks himself back in, shivering at the sharp bite of cold on his skin, John glances at the sun fading into the horizon. It’ll be dark soon, with time to move under the cover of nightfall. Taking a moment to breathe chill air, the temperature burning in his sinuses, John turns back toward the truck. </p><p>He freezes.  </p><p>There is a shadowy figure, creeping along the back of the truck. Pressed up against the metal, the stranger crouches and lifts a gun in both hands, bracing at the edge of the tailgate before tilting around to inch along the side. </p><p>John’s breath puffs out in a hot cloud in front of his face and he is running, staying low to the ground, using the cover of the trees to conceal his approach. The figure is nearing the passenger side, reaching for the door handle, Sherlock’s tangled curls just visible through the fogged window. </p><p>Boots scraping on loose gravel, John drops the Sig against the back of the man’s head, making him freeze, hand still stretched toward the door. He is wearing a uniform identical to the stolen clothes on John’s back, and the rifle slung across his chest is a match to the one left behind in the truck.</p><p>When he speaks, John’s voice is low and dangerous, “Don’t.” Language barrier or no, the man gets the message. His hand slowly drops, the gun with it, falling into the snow. John grabs the man’s jacket collar, pulling him away from the door as he backs away from the truck, bringing the man with him. The stranger’s feet tangle, forcing John to haul him along until he finds his balance again.</p><p>A safe distance from the vehicle, John pushes on the man’s shoulder. A head taller than John, he remains standing, stiff-backed and rigid.</p><p>“Kneel.” John shoves, and the man makes a noise but doesn’t comply. “I said <em> kneel, </em> dammit.” Slamming a boot into the back of the man’s knee, driving a cry from his lips, John digs his fingers into muscle and forces him to the ground. With the man on his knees in front of him, John rips off the stranger’s hat and grabs a handful of dark hair. He wrenches the man’s head back until the setting sun illuminates his wide eyes, locked on John’s face. “Are you alone?” The man’s mouth stays closed, and John waits.</p><p>Silence is his only answer.</p><p>Tongue flicking out to wet his lips, John leans down. Shifting the gun, pressing it to the man’s cheek, he offers a hard, ugly smile. “I’ll ask you one more time. If you don’t answer, you can eat a bullet.” The smile widens a little, and the man goes pale. “It might not kill you, but it will hurt. A lot. So, I ask again: are you alone?”</p><p>Eyes flickering from the gun against his cheek to John’s face, the man nods. John squints, features hardening. Behind him, a voice says, “He’s lying.”</p><p>Shooting a look over his shoulder, John sees Sherlock leaning out of the open passenger-side door. His face is composed. Only the strange glitter of his eyes in the falling darkness gives away any sign of emotion as he watches John intimidate a man into the snow.</p><p>The man seizes on the distraction, lunging forward awkwardly, trying to make it to his feet.</p><p>John kicks out, heavy boot catching him in the spine and slamming the man onto his front. He grunts and tries to rise, but John plants a foot on his neck and presses until the man freezes, falling still. In the following quiet, John hears the crunch of snow beneath boots. He looks at Sherlock. Their eyes meet, and Sherlock’s breath emerges in a pale cloud.</p><p>“Get in the truck,” John orders. “Lay down and don’t move.” The voice he hears is that of the soldier, not the flatmate. Not the bumbling sidekick, or Sherlock Holmes’ ‘confirmed bachelor’ partner in crime-solving. This John Watson, standing over a man, neck pinned to dirty snow with a planted boot, was born in the deserts of Afghanistan.</p><p>The man lets out a low, choked sound, and Sherlock shifts back into the vehicle, closing the door behind him. He ducks out of sight, following orders without question for once in his life. Glancing over his shoulder, John bends and wraps an arm around the torso of the man on the ground.</p><p>“Move!” He hauls the man with him, fear turning the stranger’s limbs stiff, John dragging him toward the truck and underneath. Pinning him under his body, John wrestles with the knife in his belt, setting it over the man’s right eye, gun held out toward the sound of approaching feet. Grateful for the falling darkness, John bends his head to whisper in the man’s ear, “If you scream, you’re dead.” He twitches the knife against the skin beneath the blade, feels blood trickle against his bare hand and wishes he hadn’t taken his gloves off.</p><p>Two pairs of legs move into view. John presses down, pushing the man into the snow with a muffled gasp. Digging the toe of his boot into the stranger’s hamstring, hissing a warning, he watches the men circle the truck. As he tracks their movement, he notes that the back tires have been slashed and resists the urge to press the blade harder into the man’s face.</p><p>The approaching men pause. Speak to one another and split up, one moving along the left side of the truck, the other going right. John’s exhale crystallizes in front of his face, and he clamps his mouth shut, holding his breath. The man underneath him squirms, twitching his head away from the blade against his skin. Distracted by the approaching men, John takes an elbow in the side. The force of the blow knocks the air from his lungs, giving the man space to lunge out from beneath him and crawl out from under the truck. </p><p>One of the men halts. His knees fold and he starts to bend down. Catching his breath, John rolls, grabbing the metal frame as he shoves himself out from under the vehicle, gun pointed upward and firing once he clears the underbelly of the truck. Freed of its silencer, the report is loud in the cold air, the bullet catching the man in the face and dropping him into a heap, wide eyes staring.</p><p>Drawn by the noise, the other man darts around the truck and lunges toward John. Narrowly avoiding the punch aimed at his face, John throws himself aside when the man pulls his gun, hammering the earth at John’s feet with a spray of bullets. White-hot agony rips across John’s left thigh and he grits his teeth hard around the urge to scream, injured leg buckling beneath him with the shock.</p><p>While the man stops to reload, John slams onto his own back, aims the Sig with both hands, and shoots the man twice, once in the shoulder, the second shot ripping through his chest with a spray of blood. Hands dropping, gun sideways on his stomach, John sucks in a loud breath before forcing himself back to his feet. His thigh burns but a quick peek reveals it is just a graze.</p><p>Sherlock is at his side, fingers plucking at John’s arm. “You’re hurt.”</p><p>Waving him away, John shakes his head. “I’m fine.” He raises the gun, limping slightly as he rounds the truck to find the first man escaping, running full-tilt away from them. Arms lifted, gun held steady, John aims and shoots, striking the fleeing man in the back of his right calf. With a cry, the man trips to the ground, the retrieved gun in his hand skidding away in the snow, out of reach. </p><p>John walks toward him, watches the man crawling, fingers scrabbling for the gun. The tips brush the stock just as John plants a boot on his back once more and thunders two bullets into the man’s body, one in the back of the neck, the other into the skull. The man jerks and falls still, blood seeping into the snow, melting it into a muddy red mess. </p><p>Breath emerging loud and uneven from his lips, John glances behind him to find Sherlock approaching, backpack draped over one shoulder, rifle on the other. Their eyes meet in silent agreement and they turn the way the men came from, following a faint trail of bootprints. </p><p>When they come upon a truck, newer than the one abandoned behind them, John slows. He holds up a hand and hears Sherlock halt behind him. John narrows his eyes, listening. The truck is dark and silent, the moon casting silver shadows over the snow. Turning to Sherlock, he opens his mouth to give the all-clear before a harsh yell shatters the silence.</p><p>John whirls, sees a man lunging at him from around the side of the truck, a wicked knife in hand, slashing toward his face. John falls back, trips, catches his footing and raises an arm to deflect the killing strike, no time to aim the Sig.</p><p>A gun roars behind him and the man jerks as bullets rip into his body, driving him back and down. Catching his breath, John turns to see Sherlock with the rifle still raised, hands curled white-knuckled around the weapon. He has to swallow around a sudden tightness in his throat before he can reply, nodding to Sherlock. “Thanks.” </p><p>Sherlock’s eyes are twin glimmers in the dark. “Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>The truck takes them several hours down the road. John’s bleeding thigh clots and stings, forcing him to grit his teeth with every twinge of pain. Sherlock watches him from the passenger seat, silent and glassy-eyed. After his initial attempts to engage John in conversation, he lapses into a contemplative sulk, legs hugged to his chest, head tilted back against the window.</p><p>John does his best to ignore the scrutiny, navigating icy, slowly winding roads through unfamiliar territory. He tries not to think too hard about pursuit and what might lay ahead. Sherlock’s stare burns into his skin, echoing the stinging pain in his thigh from the bullet graze until John’s jaw clenches. </p><p>“What!” </p><p>Sherlock blinks, shifting in surprise. “What?”</p><p>John’s teeth grind together. “Why are you looking at me like that?”</p><p>Averting his eyes, Sherlock curls tighter into himself, turning his gaze out the window instead. “Sorry.” He is quiet for a moment before he breaks into the uneasy silence. “Why did you come?”</p><p>His hands tighten on the steering wheel and John frowns at the road. He takes his time, turning the question over in his head, considers it from various angles. The answer never changes. </p><p>“Because you needed me.”</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>“A Saab? Really?” </p><p>Sherlock looks up from the door lock he is trying to break, eyebrows rising. “No good?” </p><p>Shrugging, John glances over his shoulder, checking the road for signs of headlights. There is nothing but the swirling snow and their breaths, hanging in the air like gossamer clouds. </p><p>“I mean, they’re cars designed by aero engineers who made fighter jets if that means anything.” </p><p>“It doesn’t,” Sherlock replies and the lock pops, the door swinging open with a creak of rusted hinges. His face lights up, the expression painfully familiar despite the discoloured, bruised skin. The sight of it throws John back several years, to a cab ride filled with Sherlock’s voice, telling him his life story.</p><p>
  <em> That’s not what people usually say. </em>
</p><p>John shakes the memory away. Sliding past Sherlock, he ducks into the driver’s seat, searching for keys. Nothing in the glove box or the centre console. When he flips down the sun visor, all that falls into his lap is a dead spider. John flicks it away, glancing up at Sherlock where he leans over the open door. “No keys.”</p><p>“Move.” Sherlock waves him aside and John scoots out, letting him take his place, the detective’s long legs bending to fit into the car. He winces, pauses before gritting his teeth and leaning down to look at the ignition.</p><p>Watching him, John’s mouth quirks. “Don’t tell me you know how to hotwire a—”</p><p>The Saab coughs, sputters, and revs. The engine chugs sluggishly beneath the hood. Sherlock glances up at John with a wide grin and John feels his lips mirror the expression despite the hollow anger still burning eternal beneath his ribs.</p><p>“Of course. Why even ask?”</p><p>Sherlock’s response is smug, eyes dancing with a recognizable gleam of pleasure. “As always, John, you see but do not observe.” </p><p>The easy smile slips from John’s lips and his face turns cold. “Move over,” he orders. Sherlock’s satisfied expression fades and he does as told. </p><p>Settling into the driver’s seat, guiding the groaning car onto the road, John tries to ignore his stare.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>They sleep in the car. It is cold and cramped. Sherlock stretches out in the backseat, legs curling up in the too-small space, huddled beneath the ugly grey wool blanket John took from the compound. </p><p>John wakes with the sun when it rises, blinding as his eyes blink open. Shifting up from his cramped position in the passenger seat, reclined over Sherlock’s legs in the back, he stretches the agonizing stiffness from his left shoulder, the old wound snarling from the cold and sleeping in a car. In the backseat, Sherlock twists onto his side, blanket slipping onto the floor. His face is flushed and damp with sweat. At the sight, John curses, scrabbling around to dig in the backpack on the floor, searching for the antibiotics. </p><p>His fingers close around the plastic container and one shake tells him it’s empty. Staring at the bottle, John turns back to Sherlock again, brow furrowed. Sherlock’s eyes are open now, glazed with fever, bright above the spots of hot red in his cheeks.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me they were finished?” </p><p>Sherlock shakes his head slowly and winces. John’s frown deepens but Sherlock closes his eyes, refusing to elaborate beyond his silence. Sighing, John looks back at the empty bottle. Sherlock’s wounds are too substantial, sucking away his strength before his body can hope to recover. In such a state, the fever will drain his last reserves and leave him limp and empty. </p><p>“Sod it all.”</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>John needs different clothes. Even without his complete lack of fluency in the local language, the stolen uniform draws too much attention. Without Sherlock firing on all cylinders, John struggles to devise a plan for new clothing that doesn’t involve trying to convince a store clerk to take the British pounds in his wallet. </p><p>From the backseat, Sherlock watches him, every blink slow, his breathing laboured and shallow. After John has worked himself into a real strop, the detective sighs.</p><p>“Just steal them.” The glare John shoots his way fails to deter the feverish man. “Seriously, John. Let go of your morals. Survival demands the sacrifice of principles.” </p><p>Staring at him, John is struck by the mechanical tone of Sherlock’s voice. The sound of it throws him back to their sitting room at 221B. John, his hands planted on the back of his chair, watching Sherlock scroll through his phone and sneer.</p><p>
  <em> Not much cop, this caring lark. </em>
</p><p>Jaw tensed, John nods, a quick, jerky movement before he slips into the driver’s seat.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>The family is a cliche in its makeup. A man and woman, their teenage son, a young daughter. The man is short and well-built, the son startlingly tall and thin, taking after his mother. </p><p>Peering out the passenger side window, Sherlock panting through his fever in the back, John watches the family go about their day. He tracks the flicker of light in the windows until the day fades back into night and Sherlock’s breathing grows more and more laboured. John uses some of their precious water to wash his face. Sherlock doesn’t thank him or even acknowledge the kindness. When he isn’t fading in and out of consciousness, his eyes are fixed and faded, nonsense babbling from his lips in mumbling delirium. John sits sentry at his side, curled and cramped into the dip between the front seat and Sherlock’s backseat-turned-sickbed. It is a punishment for his muscles, John’s leg falling asleep within minutes, shoulder screaming protest at the position. </p><p>Ignoring the pain, teeth pressing into his bottom lip, John drips liquid down Sherlock’s dry throat, wipes sweat from his brow, and watches the house until dawn breaks grey and cold on the horizon. </p><p>The front door cracks open and the father and son appear, dressed in heavy coats that make John glower in envy. They slip into a black jeep and disappear into the lightening sky, John’s captive breath rushing out in a gasp. Drumming his fingers against his knee, he realizes the mother must still be home. </p><p>Sherlock’s breathing sounds wet and sick. John can’t wait any longer.</p><p>Ducking out of the car, hat pulled low over his face, gun tucked against his side, he covers the distance from their stakeout position to the front door at a crouched run. Teeth gritted against the stiff snarl in his muscles, John struggles with the lock on the front door. His lock-picking skills are mediocre at best, drilled into him by an exasperated Sherlock two years ago. But the lock is old and simple and John manages it after a modicum of cursing, pulling the door open slowly.</p><p>A low, scraping creak rips from the hinges and John stiffens, holding his breath and listening. When nothing breaks the silence in response, he eases into the house and finds himself in a small kitchen. Light on his feet, John pulls pantry staples off the shelves, stuffing them into the backpack. Creeping through the house, he searches for clothing, money, anything that might help. </p><p>A sound behind him makes him freeze and whirl, finding a woman in the doorway of one of the rooms, one hand on the frame, her eyes wide and suspicious. She is tall and slender, skin on the rosier side of pale, eyelashes fluttering over a slow blink.</p><p>John holds up a hand. She takes a step forward, hesitant and he shakes his head, showing her the gun, pulling it slowly from behind him. The woman goes stiff and still. Her hands rise, eyes darting from his face to the weapon and back. John shakes his head when she says something to him in Serbian. </p><p>“I don’t understand,” he says and her eyes widen at the English accent in his voice. “I don’t speak Serbian.” </p><p>Lips pursed, the woman glances over her shoulder to a room to the side. The door is cracked open enough for John to see long, tousled hair, peeking out from under a quilt. </p><p>The daughter.</p><p>John catches the woman’s eye again and shakes his head. </p><p>“I’m not here to hurt you.” The woman stares at him and, sighing, John lowers the gun until it points at the floor. Watching him, the woman narrows her eyes. John licks his lips and nods, trying to plan this out. The language barrier is no help and he finds himself wishing, for just a moment, that Sherlock was the one here because John is worse than useless right now.</p><p>Despite the temptation to give up and leave, he pushes the thought away and focuses. </p><p>“Clothes.” Grabbing his own sleeve, John tugs at the fabric. Waves a hand over the uniform on his body. “Clothing?” He mimes tugging the shirt over his head and the woman takes a step back, face flooding with sudden terror. John blinks, realizing the direction of her thoughts, and emphatically shakes his head. “No. <em> No. </em> I’m not...I’m not telling you to…” he sighs, frustrated, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay.” He mimes the action again, this time pointing to himself. The woman’s eyes narrow and John pretends to shiver. </p><p>Her face fills with understanding and John gasps out his relief. When she steps aside, John moves past her slowly, holding eye contact and making sure she sees the gun still in his hand. Still facing her, John enters a medium-sized bedroom, beelines to the closet, and begins digging out suitable-looking clothing, stuffing them in a cloth bag he finds on the floor. The woman watches him with a confused but impassive expression, taking a step back when John straightens, bag on one shoulder, gun still out but pointed toward the ground. </p><p>“Money?” The woman shrugs, brows rising. There is a wariness in her stiff body but otherwise, she is perfectly calm, collected. John wonders if she is just exceptionally brave, or if this is not the first time a strange man in a uniform broke into her home. </p><p>Shaking off the thought, John digs his wallet out and shows her the banknotes. “Money?” She seems to understand and shoots him a particularly nasty look once she does. John sighs, tucking his wallet away. “Yeah, I know. I’d hate me, too.” </p><p>The glare tossed his way could strip paint and John can’t help the apologetic moue of his mouth. She squints at him, the expression softening with wordless understanding. With a nod, she opens the drawer of a bedside table and turns to offer a handful of colourful bills. John takes them hesitantly, watching her with wariness. But the woman, to his surprise, offers a sad smile. When he takes the money, she actually pats his arm with a weird acceptance before John snatches his hand back. The gesture speaks where words fall on unheeding ears between them: she understands what it is like to need and not have. </p><p>John returns the nod, hefts the cloth bag higher on his shoulder and backs out of the room, toward the front door. The woman drifts after him, pausing in the doorway again. Swallowing, John tilts his head toward her once more and leaves, feeling her eyes on his back until the door closes between them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When John returns to the car, Sherlock is screaming. Body twisted with delirious nightmares, he writhes and shudders in the backseat. Once John gets the door open, he has to pin Sherlock down against the seat to keep him from lashing out, clawing at his own skin. His arms are already bleeding from long, ugly marks and John tries not to think about the chance of infection with Sherlock’s filthy, broken nails. </p><p>“Sherlock. Sherlock. You’re safe, you’re okay. Sherlock!” </p><p>The detective is speaking, gasping words, caught between English and Serbian. It sounds like begging, sounds like pleading, sounds like absolute, unbearable hell. John slips his arms around Sherlock’s torso, pinning his arms to his sides and resting his weight across the writhing, fighting body beneath his. Somewhere, deep in his memory, John recalls an article about pressure on the body engaging the sympathetic nervous system and reducing anxiety. Weighted blankets and the power of holding another person close. </p><p>John is no stranger to nightmares but here, he is out of his depth, Sherlock snarling his way through a feverish reliving of days spent in the hands of cruel men. John tightens his hold and closes his eyes, dropping his face into Sherlock’s neck, wondering how he came to be here.</p><p>Two weeks ago, Sherlock Holmes was dead. Suicide. Slammed down onto the pavement, arms spread and landing in an open grave. Now, he and John lay in the backseat of an old black Saab 9000, John locking his arms against the terror jerking through Sherlock’s limbs.</p><p>Sherlock is mumbling again, now in English, the words slurred but clear enough for John to understand. </p><p>“I have to get back.” Something unintelligible, followed up with, “He thinks I’m dead. He thinks I’m dead. Need to get back, can’t let him forget.”</p><p>Brow furrowed, John tries to track the direction of Sherlock’s words. London? Who can’t forget?</p><p>Lost in his thoughts, John misses it when Sherlock falls still. Face still pressed into the sweaty skin of Sherlock’s neck, he jerks at the touch of hands on his back. Long fingers trace along his spine and he shivers before lifting his head. Sherlock’s eyes are half-open, sooty lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.</p><p>
  <em> “John.” </em>
</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes drop to his mouth, the only warning before his lips are on John’s, hands curling around his skull, fingers slipping into silvered hair. The kiss is sloppy, Sherlock clumsy and uncoordinated in his fever, limbs shaking. John’s mind goes offline, shooting blanks, sparking with interrupted signals.</p><p>His lips part, the taste of Sherlock’s unsteady breathing flooding his mouth. The sensation makes John jerk back, panting, aghast at his own actions as his brain settles back into reality. </p><p>He expects Sherlock to be upset. Angry. Anything at all. But Sherlock’s eyes are closed again and his breathing is laboured, face flushed with fever and sweat. He is mumbling under his breath, soft enough to force John to bend and put his ear to his mouth.</p><p>“John. John, not John. <em> John. </em>” When Sherlock subsides, it is back into an uneasy sleep, eyelids flickering over roving eyes. </p><p>With a sigh, John slips out of the backseat, closing the door as quietly as he can before ducking into the passenger seat. Casting a cautious look at Sherlock in the back, finding him lost to the world, he sheds the stolen uniform and replaces them with the stolen clothes, shivering in the cold until he is covered once more, pulling a heavy coat tight around his chilled body. </p><p>The morning is slipping closer to noon and they need to get moving. </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>John pulls the vehicle into a petrol station. He stares helplessly at the car, wondering if it takes diesel or unleaded petrol. Bending to glare at the fuel port, he glances at the pump and theorizes it should fit. Don’t they make diesel nozzles larger than petrol intakes? </p><p>Tilting his eyes up to the sky, he wishes, not for the first time, that Sherlock was more lucid. That Mycroft had chosen someone else, someone more suited for this guerilla mission. That Sherlock had never faked his death in the first place, dragging John in his wake to the ass-end of nowhere in a country where he doesn’t speak a lick of the language. Even worse, John almost wishes he had never stepped foot in 221B. Had never followed Mike to the lab at Bart’s and offered his phone to a madman. </p><p>Wishes he had never thought a walk through the park was a good idea, that sunny London afternoon. </p><p>Glimpsed through the window, Sherlock thrashes in his sleep and John sighs. It’s too late now for his wishes and what-ifs. Right now, he is standing at a petrol station in Serbian winter, nozzle in hand, staring at the foreign writing and symbols on the pump like a man who never learned how to read. Dimly, John realizes he can’t even fill the car because he has no idea how much money he took from the family. Sighing, he hangs up the nozzle, darts a look at Sherlock in the back of the car, now still and pale, his breathing visible and strained, and heads toward the station building.</p><p>Inside, a young man with short hair looks up from the counter at John’s approach. He says something, likely a greeting. John shrugs and shakes his head. The man blinks but smiles, and John sets several bills on the countertop, pointing to the Saab. </p><p>“Petrol? Fuel?” He shrugs again. “Car?” </p><p>To his relief, the young man grins and nods, filling John with gratitude for the simplicity of petrol stations and reinforcing his conviction to learn at least the basics in other languages. Frankly, this entire situation has been an embarrassing reminder of his limits and, as an ex-soldier, the knowledge gap doesn’t sit well with him. </p><p>The young man says something, gesturing to the car. John nods and smiles, waving his thanks on his way outside. Checking on Sherlock in the back, finding him still asleep and somewhat less death-bed-chic, John allows himself just a moment of relaxation. A second of positive thought. </p><p>They can do this. They’ll make it. Eventually, they will be on a plane, touching-down in London. Sherlock will have access to a hospital and John can turn his back on these days of adrenaline and uncertainty. What comes after that, he has no earthly idea. </p><p>John glances back inside the car and frowns because nothing is or will be that simple. Sherlock Holmes is alive (for now), and John has no conception of where that leaves the two of them. All he knows is he is still angry and deeply sad, and the cold is biting at him as he pumps petrol into a stolen car. </p><p>The pump emits a clunking sound, reaching the end of John’s purchase. Hanging up the nozzle, he pauses to wave at the young man in the station and slips into the car. Sherlock is snoring softly in the back and the sound is so painfully familiar, reminiscent of countless post-case, Sherlock-couch-naps, that John has to close his eyes to ground himself. To remind himself they are not at 221B and everything is not normal.</p><p>A sensory memory ticks at the back of his head, Sherlock’s fever-dry lips on his. John pushes it away and opens his eyes. Breathing a sigh, he starts the car and guides it out of the parking lot, onto a quiet road. It is beginning to snow again and he is grateful for the snow tires on the car, navigating slick ice and piling white drifts.</p><p>Sherlock coughs in his sleep and John’s fingers tighten white-knuckled on the steering wheel.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock struggles his way through the infection, John giving him what he can to keep the fever under control. When it finally breaks, John is four hours down the road from the petrol station, snowy scenery flashing by the fogged windows. The blower only works on the lowest setting and the interior of the car is frigid. John’s hands are halfway to completely numb when the sound of Sherlock’s low, “John?” from the back gains his attention. It is enough to make him pull over, guiding the car into a side road, grateful for the excuse to rub his freezing hands together. </p><p>“How do you feel?” he asks, twisting in the seat to look at Sherlock. The detective is a mess, hair a sweaty tangle over his forehead, face just visible over the edge of the blanket pulled up to his neck. Sherlock shrugs and wipes his hands over his face. </p><p>“Like I haven’t had a bath in a month.” </p><p>John snorts. “Probably accurate.” Sherlock smiles in response, their eyes locking, his expression genuine in one of those rare moments of Sherlock without his mask. Breaking the connection, John turns to look out the windshield again. He clears his throat, asking roughly, “Are you hungry?”</p><p>Behind him, Sherlock’s response is a subdued, “Yes.” </p><p>“All right.” </p><p>After doling out some of their stolen rations and settling into the passenger seat, John slips into his thoughts. He tries plotting ahead around their route, anticipating potential pitfalls. In the backseat, Sherlock watches him. He is blatant about it, studying John’s face with rapt eyes, clear for the first time in days. Glancing at him, John sees his colour is a little better, the bruises finally starting to fade. </p><p>“You look better.” </p><p>Sherlock looks up from the food in his hands, surprise flickering over his face. He smiles hesitantly. “Thank you.” Frowning, his eyes drop before darting back up. “John, I…”</p><p>Something in his tone strikes John with a strange foreboding and he is suddenly certain he does not want to hear the rest of whatever Sherlock has to say. He shakes his head and settles deeper into the seat. “Sherlock, please don’t. I can’t. Right now, I can’t.”</p><p>The furrow in Sherlock’s brow deepens. His mouth opens and, for a moment, John thinks he might press forward and ignore him. But he closes his mouth with a click and nods, keeping his eyes down. He doesn’t look at him again and John is grateful for the respite from Sherlock’s intense scrutiny. </p><p>“All right. Let’s get going.”</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>The closer they get to the border, the stronger John’s uncertainty grows. His fingers begin to drum against the steering wheel, left hand threatening to shake with the stress in his body. Sherlock, sitting up in the backseat, shoots him evaluating looks. John catches his eye more than once in the rear-view mirror and clamps down on his building frustration. </p><p>When Sherlock finally leans forward, touching light fingers to John’s shoulder, he nearly jumps out of his skin.</p><p>“Jesus, Sherlock! Warn a bloke!”</p><p>Sherlock’s face is impassive and frustratingly calm, ratcheting John’s irritation up another notch. When the detective speaks, his voice is gentle. “Pull over, John. Just here.” </p><p>John doesn’t want to but he does, bringing the vehicle onto the shoulder. To his annoyance and surprise, his hands tremble violently once he lets go of the steering wheel. The exhaustion that floods in, pushing out the fading dregs of adrenaline, settles into his bones and drags his shoulders low. </p><p>“God, I’m so tired."</p><p>“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is right beside his ear and John jerks back in surprise, inadvertently making room for the detective’s long limbs as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Do you have a plan?”</p><p>John’s hands curl into fists. “Was working on it, thanks. So sorry, didn’t realize I was the idea machine.”</p><p>Frowning, Sherlock tilts forward. The space in the front of the car, already cramped, seems to disappear to nothing, Sherlock’s presence larger-than-life in the small area. “That’s not what I meant, John.” </p><p>John huffs and tries to push down the aimless anger rising at the back of his throat. Focusing on Sherlock’s earnest expression and less on the way his mind tries to remind him that he has tasted the lips parted above Sherlock’s steepled fingers, John narrows his eyes. “So what, then? What does the great Sherlock Holmes mean?”</p><p>“Funny, John. Very amusing.” </p><p>“Don’t test me, Sherlock.” John narrows his eyes. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”</p><p>Sherlock sighs and leans back in the seat, folding his hands in his lap. With the light cast by the sun’s reflection on the snow, he looks pale and waxen, and John feels a faint bite of guilt for his behaviour. </p><p>“When I first came to Serbia, my plan was to infiltrate and dismantle the final part of Moriarty’s crime syndicate.” Looking at his hands, Sherlock folds his fingers into the gaps between his knuckles, brow creased in thought. John listens, the words washing over him, filling gaps in his understanding of Sherlock’s life after his false suicide. “Obviously, things didn't go according to plan.” Sherlock’s lips quirk in a wry smile and John feels himself begin to mirror it and frowns instead. “But, originally, I had planned to complete my mission and travel to Hungary, as I assume we are now.” He glances at John for clarification, waiting for John’s nod before continuing, “There is a group of smugglers who, for the right fee, will take people over the border. Mycroft agreed to pay said fee, assuring me he could do no more than that.”</p><p>Sherlock pauses and the silence stretches out so long that John clears his throat. “And?” Eyes refocusing, Sherlock glances at him, eyes unreadable. </p><p>“Mycroft tried to turn me away from entering Serbia. Insisted he could not protect me and that it was an unnecessary risk on my part.” Flexing his fingers, Sherlock sighs. “I was adamant that I would be fine. I had taken down the rest of Moriarty’s network, mostly on my own, with little help from Mycroft. I was arrogant. I was...wrong.” The words seem to pain him and he closes his eyes. Sitting forward, rapt, John blinks and waits. Sherlock continues in a softer voice, repeating, “I was wrong, John. I was captured and Mycroft could not come to my rescue, just as he had warned.” </p><p>His eyes flash open and the colour is verdant sharp, taking John’s breath away. “Sherlock,” he begins softly but Sherlock shakes his head. </p><p>“You’re here because of me, John. Because of my arrogance and my idiocy.” Sherlock drops his gaze briefly before he looks back at John, his expression intense, another rare slip of the mask. “I know you are tired, John. And I’m sorry. I cannot know how much I have to apologize for but I do apologize.” He pauses for a breath, brows rising in a resigned grimace. “If possible, I will make use of the smuggling operation to cross the border. And you—you can cross legally, on foot. You have a passport, I’m sure you can come up with a story that will get you home.” Swallowing, Sherlock looks out the window. “You have already done more than enough for a man you thought was dead.”</p><p>Stunned, John blinks. He sits up straighter, stiff-backed and caught off guard by Sherlock’s words. “What?” </p><p>Sherlock turns to face him. “Go, John. You don’t owe me anything.” His voice is tense and hard, expression closing off again, the mask falling into place. “Go back to London. <em> Move on </em> with your life.” </p><p>The impact of Sherlock’s quiet command hits John harder than Mycroft telling him Sherlock was still alive. Alive, in danger.</p><p>
  <em> Sherlock is alive and he needs you.  </em>
</p><p>That had hurt. Ripped into him, refreshing the nightmare of Sherlock’s suicide. Sitting here, an hour from the Serbian border, John’s left hand begins to tremble. </p><p>“No,” he says. Sherlock, looking out the window again, jerks back toward him. “No,” John repeats, adamant. </p><p>“John—”</p><p>“I said <em> no, </em> Sherlock.” John’s anger is back, ramped into overdrive by the sudden surge of shock in his system. “I’m not here on <em> a whim </em> . I’m not here because your brother forced me to come. I’m not—I’m not his <em> pawn, </em> Sherlock.” John’s hand won’t stop shaking and he curls his fingers tight around his thigh to force it still. “I’m here because... because…” the words catch in his throat and he swallows them down, tries something else. “I’m here because you needed me.” It’s simple and true, a weight easing off his shoulders at the admission. </p><p>Sherlock looks dazed. “John?” </p><p>“No. Shut up.” John reaches out and flicks Sherlock’s arm. “We’ve made it this far together. We’ll make it the rest of the way together, too. So shut it.” </p><p>Sherlock blinks, uncertain, searching John’s face. He nods, settling back into the seat. “All right.” A slightly mischievous smile curves his lips. “Whatever you say, Captain Watson.”</p><p>Facing forward again, John settles his hands on the steering wheel. “You’re damn right.” </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>In hindsight, it had been too good to be true. They had been so incredibly, embarrassingly gullible. Not for the first time in his life, John wonders why he ever put his trust in Sherlock Holmes and almost immediately feels guilty. It’s not Sherlock’s fault, none of this is really Sherlock’s fault. It’s just the luck of the draw, the same failure of chance that has dogged their heels since John dragged Sherlock out of the compound, weak and brutalized from torture. They have been too lucky and this is it, the chickens coming home to roost. </p><p>The burlap bag over his head is stifling and John tries not to breathe too fast or too loud for fear of suffocating. Beneath him, the vehicle bumps over uneven ground and he knows they are no longer on the main road. Reaching out, he gropes blindly until he finds warm skin and a racing pulse. </p><p>Sherlock’s fingers interlace with John’s. Together, they wait for the next shoe to drop.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>Finding the smugglers was easier than John would have assumed. They were where Sherlock said they would be and they seemed willing. According to Sherlock, they had received the payment. Everything seemed right, like it was routine and according to plan. Up until one of the men slammed the butt of his rifle into the backs of John’s knees, sending him to the ground and awakening the pain in his thigh from the bullet graze. Hitting the snow with a grunt, John had been startled by Sherlock’s cry of shocked rage.</p><p>Now, with the sack over his head and Sherlock’s fingers vibrating against his, John wonders how he could ever have been so naive. </p><p>“Where are they taking us?” he asks, speaking into muffled darkness. Sherlock’s hand tightens around his, almost to the point of pain. The pressure is strangely reassuring.</p><p>“I don’t know. Into Hungary, most likely.” A pause. “They spoke Hungarian. If I had to take a guess, they’ll take us wherever smugglers take the people they keep. Nowhere good.” </p><p>“Great.” John sighs, shifting. “Lovely. I can’t wait.” </p><p>“Funny, John.” Sherlock’s tone is dry but John can still make out the amusement beneath. In his imagination, he can picture Sherlock’s little smile with ease, even as the detective listens and tries to track their location. </p><p>A thought occurs to him. “Do you think they kept our things?” It would be a real pain to lose the GPS but John worries more for his gun. It may be just a weapon, but it is a tie to who he was before, who he became, and he feels a surge of regret at the possibility it may be gone. </p><p>Sherlock’s thumb presses against the side of his hand. “I don’t know. Hopefully.” </p><p>The vehicle rumbles to a stop, engine dying out and leaving them in brief, blessed silence before low voices drift from outside. John tenses, breathing quicker with anticipation.</p><p>“They’re coming to get us,” Sherlock whispers. “We’re here, wherever here is.” His voice dies away just before it is drowned out by a loud metal squeal. John feels a rush of cold air and light on the outside of the burlap covering his face. Someone speaks in Hungarian and is answered, then Sherlock’s hand is slipping out of his and John snarls, reaching and swinging blindly toward the sound of voices. Sherlock’s anxious shout of “John!” is the only warning he has before something slams into his stomach and John curls in on himself. </p><p>A voice speaks near his ear, heavily accented English, “Don’t try that again, <em> hülye. </em> You are not pretty like your friend, we won’t get much for you, disposable man.” </p><p>The next blow catches him on the temple and the world goes dark. </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>John opens his eyes to thudding pain, a wall of metal bars, and Sherlock leaning over him, brow furrowed. </p><p>“John,” he breathes, relief evident, tilting back as John struggles into an upright position. There is a wooden wall behind him and he sets his shoulders against it, rubbing a hand over his head, wincing at the bump he finds there. </p><p>“Where are we?” </p><p>Sherlock gestures, face tense. “Some kind of holding cell. Looks like an abandoned barn, retrofitted.” He kicks at the floor and John blinks, taking in their surroundings, noting that they are sitting on piled hay. His next inhale catches in his throat, remembering stories of men caught unawares in Afghanistan, found with bullets in their bodies inside old, burnt-out barns. His hands threaten to shake and he folds them beneath his thighs. He tries to make the movement casual but Sherlock’s eyes flicker at the action and his frown deepens. Clearing his throat, John looks around again. “What’s the plan?” </p><p>To his alarm, Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He sounds helpless and frustrated. John’s stomach sinks. Swallowing, he pushes the creeping alarm away. </p><p>“That’s alright. Two heads are better than one, right?” He tries for a smile, knows it comes to his face weak and strained, Sherlock shooting him a sour look. John ignores it. “Right. So. What do we know?” At Sherlock’s silence, he forges onward, drawing in a loud, shaky breath. “You said they’re Hungarian, right?” Sherlock nods, staring at the hay on the floor with a little fold between his eyebrows. He looks lost in thought and John rambles on, saying anything he can think of, hoping he’ll say the word that triggers Sherlock’s brilliant mind into revelation. </p><p>“And you think we might be in Hungary now, not Serbia? Alright. They said something, that they ‘won’t get much for me,’ so they’re selling people instead of smuggling them. Some kind of human trafficking setup.” Pausing, John taps a finger to his eyebrow, rubbing over the fine hairs and wishing he could shower. “Black market organ harvesting?” He glances at Sherlock, finds him reaching out for a piece of straw, staring at it as he spins it between two fingers. </p><p>Sherlock shakes his head, replying in a blank, dispassionate voice, “Forced prostitution.” He flicks the piece of hay back to the floor. “Sexual slavery.”</p><p>The colour drains from John’s face, remembering the man’s words from earlier: <em> You are not pretty like your friend. </em>He swallows. “Right.” His tone is strained and Sherlock glances his way. John wonders if he had heard it, too, what the man said. Sherlock’s eyes flicker over his face, narrowing. </p><p>Suddenly, he is on his feet, pausing to sway with the abrupt rise. John reaches and stops himself at Sherlock’s slight head shake. Dropping his hand back to his lap, he watches Sherlock approach the retrofitted bars. Looking past him, John sees a small, dimly lit space. There is a man sitting in a chair outside their cage, reading a book with a title in what John assumes to be Hungarian. His expression is bored, eyes glazed. Sherlock catches his attention easily, the man looking up from his book to watch Sherlock approach and wrap long fingers around the bars. </p><p>Sherlock says something in halting Hungarian and the man’s head tilts. He responds with a single word. <em> Erik. </em> John assumes that is his name and slowly stretches his legs out in front of him, trying to find a more comfortable position. His head and stomach still ache from earlier, and the bullet graze in his thigh is gummy with dried blood. He resists the urge to rub at the painful itch and watches Sherlock lean against the bars. </p><p>When he speaks again, his voice is a low, inviting rumble. The sound of it makes the hair on the back of John’s neck stand at attention. He doesn’t recognize the words but the tone is impossible to misunderstand, slow and sultry. Whatever Sherlock says, the sentence ends with a flutter of lashes and a drawn-out, <em>“Csinos.”  </em></p><p>Sherlock is <em>flirting. </em> Unabashedly and without a lick of shame. John’s breath quickens at the display and he frowns at himself. Until Sherlock’s tongue flicks out, tracing over his bottom lip as he peers up at the man from under his lowered eyelashes.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” John mutters. Sherlock shoots him a hard look and he subsides, clenching his fist around a handful of hay. To his absolute rage, the man stands, sets aside his book, and approaches the bars. There is a slick, rude smile on his face and John fantasizes about ripping his head off. Kicking it like a football. Setting it on fire.</p><p>The man, Erik, comes right up to the bars. Sherlock’s little smirk is quick, so brief that John almost misses it before his expression returns to the coy, flirtatious image of parted lips and demure eyes. Erik says something to Sherlock, to which he responds in a croon that makes John want to vomit. Erik reaches out, fingers catching a fold of Sherlock’s stolen shirt. He pulls, wrenching Sherlock against the bars, drawing a little sound of pained protest from Sherlock’s mouth. The noise is real, a break in the act. John tenses but Sherlock glances his way with a minute shake of his head before returning his attention to the man in front of him. </p><p>Erik smirks, says something more, and bends to press a hard, brutal kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. John’s eyes widen and his hands clench but he remains where he is. Looking away, he glares at the floor and wonders why he’s so bothered, even as he realizes he knows why. But this doesn’t seem the time nor place to admit it, even to himself. Instead, John grits his teeth and waits for the disgusting display to end.</p><p>Erik releases Sherlock, shoving so he tilts back into the cell, tripping onto his backside with a soft grunt. The man laughs and strides back to his chair. Tipping a wink, he pats his lips, says something with a sneer and picks up his book, dropping into the seat. </p><p>Picking himself up from the floor, Sherlock turns and moves back beside John, sliding down to sit next to him. Even in the dim light, Sherlock’s swollen lips are obvious. There is a small mark on the bottom, smudged with red. John bristles, catches Sherlock’s warning look, and subsides.</p><p>“What the hell was that about?” he hisses, unable to resist the furious question. </p><p>Wiping his lip, Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Really, John. There was a plan, I wasn’t just looking for some aimless snogging to pass the time.” Holding up his other hand, he uncurls his fingers, revealing an old-fashioned Zippo lighter resting in his palm. John’s brows rise and he blinks at Sherlock in surprise, earning a smug grin in response. The movement makes blood bead on Sherlock’s bottom lip and he wipes it away impatiently.</p><p>“How could you <em>possibly </em>know he would have that in his pocket? And how did you get it?” </p><p>Another eye roll. “You should know better than to question my methods, John.” Sherlock folds his fingers back over the lighter, carefully tucking it out of sight when the man glances their way. Lowering his voice, he adds, “As for how I knew, it was obvious. Smoker. Trying to quit, going by the taste of nicotine gum in his mouth, but still carrying around the accoutrements for when he gives in to the craving.” He ignores the grimace on John’s face at the description of how Erik’s mouth tasted and raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“Okay, fine,” John snaps, shooting a sharp glare at Erik. “Good job, you got us a lighter.” He hunkers closer, voice fading to a whisper. “What do we <em> do </em> with it?” </p><p>Sherlock’s answering grin is startling in the limited space between them. Despite himself, John’s eyes drop to his lips, tempting, bloody or not, and he drags them back to Sherlock’s in time to catch the amused flicker. </p><p>“Remember Irene Adler?”</p><p>The question catches John off guard and he blinks. “The Woman? Of course, but I…” his eyes widen and he sucks in a breath. “Oh!” </p><p>Sherlock nods, still grinning. “Oh, yes, John.” His eyes glitter in the semi-darkness. “We’re going to cause a ruckus.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations of the Hungarian words used:</p><p><i>hülye:</i> idiot/moron<br/><i>Csinos:</i> handsome</p><p>(Disclaimer: I don't speak Hungarian, so if I made a mistake in the use of the words, please let me know!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hay tickles against John’s cheek. Lying on the floor, his body protests against the cold seeping into his muscles and joints but he holds himself still, keeps his face slack. Sherlock’s voice is loud and panicked above him, hands fluttering over his body, drifting but not quite touching. John holds his breath to keep from laughing or shouting, the irony far from lost on him, playing dead next to a man who, until recently, John had believed to be gone for good. </p><p>He doesn’t understand Sherlock’s words but he recognizes the tone, just as he recognizes the scrape of keys in a lock, and hinges creaking as the cell door swings open. Sherlock’s presence disappears, dragged away by their guard, and is replaced by the bitter smell of cigarettes and unwashed hair. Resisting the urge to crinkle his nose, John focuses on breathing shallowly enough that it almost seems as if he might not be. He waits, keeps himself loose and limp, ears straining for Sherlock’s signal. </p><p>Then it comes, Sherlock barking, “Vatican Cameos!” John moves, flipping onto his back, catching Erik by surprise and slamming his feet into his stomach with as much force as he can muster. Even cramped and awkward, it is a brutal impact, the man stumbling back, doubled-over. He backs toward Sherlock, who liberates a gun from Erik’s side.</p><p>By the time John gets to his feet, the weapon is against Erik’s head, the man gone still and stiff. Sherlock grinds the muzzle into the guard’s short hair. His expression is cold, eyes like chips of ice. Without looking up, he says, “John. Our things.” </p><p>Nodding, John hurries out of the cell, finding their bags in a corner, tossed aside and obviously plundered. To his disappointment, his gun is not there.</p><p>The cell clangs shut and Sherlock appears at his side, pressing the stolen handgun into John’s hands. Looking down, John realizes it’s his, and the relief that floods through him is surprising. Taking the Sig, fingers curling around the familiar metal, feels strangely cathartic. He flashes a smile up at Sherlock, who favours him with a rare, softened expression before whirling to grab the backpack. He winces when it hits his shoulders and John opens his mouth to protest but Sherlock beats him to it, shaking his head.</p><p>“No, John. I need you to be fast. I’ll be fine.” </p><p>John still wants to argue but there is no time. Erik is glaring at them from inside the cell, shouting furious words. John isn’t stupid enough to think the sound won’t draw the others. He nods and creeps toward the door, glancing outside to find no one in sight. For now. </p><p>Setting his back against the wall beside the opening, he watches Sherlock use the lighter to set Erik’s book on fire. The detective holds the flickering flame to the corner of the pages until they catch, the small fire casting strange, dancing shadows over his angular face. It makes him look ethereal, like something from another world, and John’s breath catches. </p><p>With a slight smile and hard eyes, Sherlock drops the flaming book onto the floor. The planks gutter and catch before he tosses the lighter into the cage with Erik. The hay goes up like tinder, the man scrabbling away from the sudden inferno on his hands and knees, face wild with panic. Sherlock stands where he is, fire building at his feet, transfixed. </p><p>Shooting a glance outside again, finding the coast still clear, John darts forward. He catches Sherlock’s arm and drags him away, the detective following with a strangely blank expression, fire reflected in his prismatic eyes. </p><p>Out in the snow, the sound of voices rises and John tugs Sherlock in the opposite direction until he finds his footing and starts to run. They sprint for the treeline, the noise of furiously crackling flames and panicked voices rising at their backs. Reaching the edge of the trees, they keep moving, running until the air catches in their chests, burns in their lungs, and then push further. </p><p>When they finally slow, dragging to a stop, there is nothing surrounding them but trees and snow and the sounds of the forest and their laboured breathing. </p><p>Bending at the waist, hands hitting his thighs, John gasps for air. Sucks cold oxygen into his burning chest, wheezing on every exhale. Sherlock bumps against his side, coughing smoke from his mouth and sighing into the pale sky. John straightens and looks over at him, finds the detective already watching him, dried blood on his lip and fierce colour in his face. His eyes are alight with the thrill of their escape, tendons standing out in his neck with every laboured breath. </p><p>Adrenaline roaring in his ears, John surges toward him. He takes Sherlock’s face in steady hands and hauls him down, claiming his mouth with a brutal kiss. Before his eyes close, he catches the startled flutter of Sherlock’s lashes, then large hands are on his, searching for purchase and finding it. Long fingers latch onto John’s wrists, Sherlock humming a desperate moan past John’s parted lips.  </p><p>Breathless, lungs aching for air, John breaks the kiss just long enough to inhale shakily, diving back in to drown in the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his, the taste of his mouth, the slide of their tongues. Sherlock makes another low sound and John groans. Sliding his hands higher, he grips handfuls of long, tangled hair, pulling Sherlock harder into his body, tugging at his upper lip with his teeth. </p><p>Sherlock is the one to pull away next, only far enough for them to breathe one another’s breaths, hot and thick between panting mouths. His eyes rove over John’s face, confused and liquid with lust, his expression bordering on terrifying uncertainty. The look is raw, stripped bare, and John can’t stand it, tilting up to press a softer kiss to Sherlock’s startled lips.</p><p>When he leans back, eyes sliding open, Sherlock’s face is almost blissful, even with the confusion lurking beneath. Gentling his hands, John grips the detective’s face, stroking over sharp cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs.</p><p>“You,” he says, voice rough, “are an absolute wanker.” Sherlock blinks, the uncertainty filtering back into his face. John smiles and Sherlock blinks again. “And I’m so grateful you’re not dead.” He pauses, adding, “I’m still utterly <em>furious </em>at you for making me watch you pretend to kill yourself and disappearing for two years. But I’m so glad I get to be mad at you, you sodding bastard.”</p><p>A startled laugh escapes Sherlock’s lips, loud and sudden in the space between them, impossible for John not to want to taste. And he does, leaning in to lick into Sherlock’s mouth, swallowing down his pleased noises. </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>Watching clouds flicker past the airplane window, John is struck by deja vu, the parallel imagery to his flight into Serbia. Knowing Sherlock was in danger, refusing to let himself consider what he might find. Wondering if he had been told Sherlock was alive only to lose him again, the life torn from his body by torture, dehydration, and cruelty. </p><p>John tilts his head toward the seat beside his, taking in the sight of Sherlock curled into himself, long limbs folded to his chest, head slack on John’s good shoulder. He smiles, pressing his nose to damp curls. Sherlock’s hair is shorter, washed and cut clumsily by John in the bathroom of a petrol station. His face still shows signs of his ordeal, pale and discoloured with the last remains of stubborn bruises and cuts, but gone is the feverish flush and the deathly hollow of his cheeks. </p><p>The fasten seatbelt sign flicks on, followed by the polite voice of the stewardess over the intercom. Clicking the belt around his waist, John settles back into his seat and stretches out his legs in the limited space. Head falling against Sherlock’s, the detective mumbling under his breath in response, John closes his eyes and drifts. </p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up.” </p><p>John touches a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, aiming for a gentle awakening. Sherlock shoots upright, narrowly avoids smacking his head against John’s as John leans away, prepared. The detective’s eyes are wide and wild, face twisted. Recognizing the response, John cups Sherlock’s face in his and turns it toward him, speaking to an expression shaped by sheer panic, “You’re safe. Sherlock. You’re safe.” </p><p>Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter, hands rising to curl in John’s shirt front. The glazed light fades from his face and he looks around, taking in the lit cabin of the plane and the people standing in the aisle. Frowning, he turns back to John. “John?”</p><p>Smiling, John nods. “We’ve landed. In London” His smile widens to a grin. “Welcome home, Sherlock.” </p><p>After a second, Sherlock smiles back. It lights up his face. “Home,” he repeats. Rising, he looks down the crowded aisle, at the people beginning to file out of the plane. When he turns back to John, his brow furrows, eyes clouded. “Are you—will you…?” His voice trails off with uncharacteristic uncertainty. Face softening, John reaches out and twines their fingers together. </p><p>“Just try to keep me away.”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes brighten with relief and he follows John’s gentle pull toward the front of the plane. </p><p>Stepping out into dreary London rain, John breathes in the damp and familiar smells of the city. Lets London fill his lungs with vitality before his eyes land on the black car idling on the tarmac. At his side, Sherlock sighs. Catching on, John quips, “Of course. Of <em>course </em>Mycroft has a car here. Screw national security, right?” </p><p>Sherlock grins. For once, John thinks, he seems almost grateful for the sign of his brother’s meddling. Still hand-in-hand, he lets John tug him toward the vehicle, the back door already opened by the driver, nodding to them before they slide inside. </p><p>“Baker Street?” the man asks once they are settled. John sees Sherlock glance his way from the corner of his eye, expression carefully blank but underlined by the glint of slow hope in his gaze. Clearing his throat, John shakes his head.</p><p>“No.” At his side, Sherlock stiffens and John squeezes his hand. “Bart’s hospital.” Glancing Sherlock’s way, he smiles and adds, <em>“Then </em> Baker Street.”</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p> </p><p>It is dark by the time the sleek black sedan pulls up to the curb outside of 221B, nearly silent in the falling rain. Sherlock and John, both stiff and sore with freshly cleaned and bandaged injuries, ease out of the backseat with twin expressions of exhaustion. Sherlock’s feet seem to drag and John takes most of his weight on the way inside, the climb up the stairs labourious. Sherlock’s eyes dart to Mrs. Hudson’s closed door but John shakes his head. </p><p>“Tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Besides—I’m sure your brother prepared her.” </p><p>Sherlock nods, frowning but letting himself be led up the stairs by John’s sturdy hands. When they reach the landing, John unlocks and pushes open the door, stepping aside to allow Sherlock to enter first. Sherlock stops in the middle of the living room. His back is stiff and rigid, facing the windows. John follows, closing and locking the door behind before turning to look at the hard lines of Sherlock’s shoulders. </p><p>“Welcome home,” he says, repeating his words from the plane. For a long moment, Sherlock is silent, remaining where he is. Slowly, he turns his head, face outlined in profile by the moonlight reaching in through the windows. </p><p>“You—” he pauses, brow furrowing, turning to face John fully. “You stayed?” </p><p>John blinks, processing the words. Finally, he nods. “I tried to leave. I did, for...for a bit. But,” he shrugs, lifting a hand to indicate the familiar space, “it was all I had left of you. I couldn’t just leave it behind.” Arm falling back to his side, he looks up at Sherlock with a small, sad smile. “That’s why I came. When Mycroft said you were alive. Even when he said the chances were slim that you still were, I...I had to. Just like with this, with trying to move on, trying to live somewhere else.” John shrugs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I couldn’t let that chance go.” </p><p>Sherlock is staring at him. Backlit by the moon and streetlights, he once more looks ethereal. An apparition, standing in the space where John has seen him so many times, both alive and as a ghost, haunting his every waking moment since that day at Bart’s, nearly two years ago. For a second, John wonders if he is real. If he hasn’t dreamt all of this, only to wake in a pool of his own sweat and anguished pain. </p><p>“Sherlock?” His voice is soft and embarrassingly tremulous but he has to know. Somehow, Sherlock must hear it, the underlying question—<em>f</em><em>act or fantasy?</em>—because he steps forward. Crowds into John’s space and grips his arms with rough hands. </p><p>“I’m here, John.” Sherlock’s breath is warm on his face, his hands an anchor, body a startlingly solid presence. “I’m real and I’m not going anywhere.” </p><p>Bending, he presses his mouth to John’s, soft and achingly gentle. John lets his eyes close, lips parting around a sigh as Sherlock’s grip tightens. It starts slow, a perfect, comforting kiss that eases the tension from John’s shoulders and spine, trailing lower to set fire to a building blaze in his stomach. Fills him with aching want and need until Sherlock’s hands are in his hair, on his shoulders, clawing at his clothes and pulling him closer. He kisses John like he’s trying to devour him or crawl into his body and John gives as good as he gets, backing Sherlock against the wall.</p><p>Sherlock’s back hits the wall and he winces, a huff of pain escaping his lips before John realizes what he’s done. Alarmed, hands lifting off, he stumbles away, grimacing with apologetic concern. “Sorry, sorry. I forgot.” Stepping forward again, John touches hesitant fingers to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” </p><p>Nodding, Sherlock straightens and waves the apology away, a forced smile on his face. “Fine. I’m fine.” He clears his throat, the mood effectively subdued by the reminder of their ordeal. </p><p>The reality of the past few weeks washes over John, sucking the air from his lungs. </p><p>“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” The words rush out of him, tumbling past his lips, impossible to swallow down. “You—you made me <em> watch.” </em></p><p>Sherlock’s head drops. Hands braced against the wall, he looks shockingly frail, their ordeal—and Sherlock’s torture—weighing heavy on his bent shoulders. </p><p>“I’m sorry, John.” His voice is soft, repentant, completely unlike the Sherlock John knew from before. “I had no choice.” </p><p>Staring at his hands, John scowls. He tries to breathe through the rumble of conflicted emotions, rage, shock, joy, swirling in his gut and comes up still aching for air. “You could have told me.” </p><p>“I—” Sherlock pauses and frowns. “Initially, no. Moriarty threatened your life unless his people saw me jump. I couldn’t risk you knowing it was staged.” His lips purse, looking up from under his lashes, demure and contrite. “Afterwards?” He shrugs. “I couldn’t be sure you would want me back in your life.” </p><p>The silence that follows is tense, stretching out between them for what feels like endless seconds until John pulls in a stuttering breath and breaks it. </p><p>“I was mad. I...am <em> still </em>mad. Let me be clear...” Stepping forward, he reaches out and fists a hand in the front of Sherlock’s shirt. “I will be mad for a long time. A <em> long </em>time. And that’s fair, that’s my right.” Sherlock nods when John pauses for his reply before going on, “And you’re going to make it up to me by never, <em> ever </em> dying in front of me again.” He gives Sherlock a gentle shake, more fond than anything fierce or violent. “You hear me?”</p><p>Sherlock nods and mutters, soft, “Yes, John.”</p><p>Glaring up at him, John’s fingers tremble, his hold tightening. “Promise me.”</p><p>A wry smile on his lips, Sherlock nods again. “Promise.” </p><p>John’s teeth gleam in a sharp grin. “You bloody well better, you absolute arse.” Using his grip on the front of Sherlock’s shirt, John hauls him down, claiming his mouth with teeth and tongue, licking past his lips to swallow the moan Sherlock voices in response. At John’s low chuckle, Sherlock seizes his face and deepens the kiss, crowding forward into John’s body. </p><p>Their feet tangle, stumbling. John’s spine hits the doorframe in the kitchen, drawing a low grunt from his lips before Sherlock swallows the sound down with violent hunger. Hands tear at his shirt, Sherlock backing away just long enough to rip it over John’s head and throw it to the floor, returning to drag eager hands over his bare skin. Fingers explore his stomach, trace the scar on his left shoulder, flick over a hardening nipple. </p><p>“Sherlock…” the name drops from John’s lips, nearly erased in a litany of pants. “Oh, god, <em> Sherlock.” </em> Sherlock moans against his neck, the sound making John drag him back up, finding his mouth, grinding his hips to meet the growing hardness in Sherlock’s trousers. The action draws another moan from the detective and their stumbling recommences, finding their way into Sherlock’s room. John hasn’t been in here much since Sherlock left but he doesn’t take the time to chase the thought because Sherlock is here, very real and very eager as he guides John down to the mattress. </p><p>In the blink of the eye, Sherlock has John’s belt undone, tugging jeans down to his ankles and off. Before John can react, pointless words dying in his throat, Sherlock drops over him, pressing his face into the fabric of his pants, tongue tracing the outline of John’s hardening cock through the material. John lets out a strangled sound, jerking at the unexpected contact until Sherlock’s hands grip his hips, pressing them down to the bed.</p><p>“Oh, god,” John pants, propping himself up on his elbows. “Sherlock. I want—I want—”</p><p>“Mhmm.” Sherlock’s response is a low hum in his throat, clawing down John’s pants before the broken-off sentence is past John’s lips. </p><p>“Sherlock—<em>fuck!” </em> The curse is loud, John’s head falling back when Sherlock swallows him down without warning, tongue swirling around the shaft and tracing over the head. “Holy fuck, oh, goddamn, bloody hell... <em> Sherlock.” </em></p><p>Sherlock hollows his cheeks, the pleasure almost bordering pain as it sends John onto his back, arms collapsing and dumping him to the bed. Sherlock’s lips slide up the length of him and off with an obscene pop that sends shivers of arousal through John from head to toe. “You have a dirty mouth, John.”</p><p>“You bloody well <em>bet </em> I do,” John growls, lunging forward to pull Sherlock up and onto him, kissing him until he whines, body loose and melting with every touch and swipe of tongue. John undresses Sherlock with methodical efficiency, only breaking their hot, heavy kissing to slip his trousers and pants down and off, drawing Sherlock back down on his body. Sherlock moves stiffly but eagerly, John soothing his hands over his arms to comfort him through the pain in his body. “On top of me,” he breathes, dragging his teeth over the dip of Sherlock’s shoulder. “Stay on top of me.”</p><p>Sherlock’s reply is a throaty murmur, gasping, “Whatever you say, Captain,” into John’s ear, back arching when John slides his hand down his stomach, taking Sherlock in hand. Breathing loud and uneven, he licks a stripe over John’s neck. “I want you inside of me. John, I want you to fuck me.” </p><p>John’s answer is a low groan, head falling back, hips rolling up to meet Sherlock’s downward grind. “Oh, god. <em> Yes</em>. Yes, please, I want to feel you.” Tilting, he digs at the bedside table, sending a silent prayer and gasping his relief when his fingers brush a small bottle and foil packets. Choosing not to question the presence of such things, John pulls out a condom and the lube, gripping them like lifelines and capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his once again. He kisses until Sherlock is boneless, panting little whines into his neck as John slides a lubed fingertip into tight, hot muscle. </p><p>Sherlock’s back arches again, head jerking up. His pupils constrict then dilate, the black almost erasing the verdant vibrance of his irises. Soothing a hand down his back, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses over his neck and shoulders, John waits for the tension to ease before pushing deeper. </p><p><em> “John!” </em> Sherlock’s face presses into his shoulder, teeth finding purchase in flesh, drawing a hiss from John at the sharp burst of pain. </p><p>“Mmhmm, I know,” John breathes, working a second finger inside to the rhythm of Sherlock’s rocking hips and wanton whimpers. “God, you’re so tight, Sherlock. Oh, fuck, I can’t wait.”</p><p>Shaking his head, Sherlock sinks his teeth in again, ignoring John’s yelp of shocked pain and pleasure mixing into a mess in his veins. “Fuck me. Do it, John.” His tone takes on a babbling quality at the stretch of a third finger, hands spasming against John’s chest. “John, John, I <em> need </em>you.” In his eagerness, his knee lands on the bullet graze marking John’s thigh but the pleasure and weight of Sherlock on top of him drives the burst of pain to the back of his mind.</p><p>“Yes. Yes, Sherlock, oh god, <em> yes.” </em> John is nearly babbling now, too, Sherlock rocking himself back, pushing into John’s fingers inside him, cocks dragging together with aching friction and not enough contact. Sliding his fingers out, rising onto an elbow, John hands Sherlock the bottle of lube and the condom packet. Grabs a handful of his shortened curls and kisses him slowly. “Do it,” he whispers, tracing Sherlock’s bottom lip with his tongue. “I want to feel you.” </p><p>Sherlock moans, grips John’s chin and sucks a bruise along the edge of his jaw, scraping with teeth and flicking his tongue against the mark. His free hand travels between them, tearing open the foil packet and smoothing the condom over John’s cock. Hips bucking forward, his own erection sliding along the dip of John’s pelvis, Sherlock squeezes lubricant over his own fingers, stroking over John before reaching back to prepare himself. Mouth fastened on John’s throat, teeth grazing the hard ridge of his Adam’s Apple, Sherlock lines the head of John’s cock against him. Stiffens and moans, tonguing over John’s pulse point, tilting back and lowering himself inch by agonizing inch onto hard flesh. </p><p>John’s head falls back as Sherlock pushes down, the gasp ripped from his lips matching Sherlock’s when he is suddenly and fully seated inside the other man’s body, Sherlock’s backside meeting his thighs with a little grunt. </p><p>“Fuck,” John breathes a weak, huffing curse. His hips stir, twitching up just enough for Sherlock to feel it, drawing a little sigh from Sherlock’s lips. Eyelids fluttering, the detective tilts forward. He drops his hands on John’s chest and lifts himself, sliding back down with an almost agonizingly slow flex of muscles. John shuts his eyes, biting on his lip, only to force them open again, watching Sherlock begin to move. He is the picture of lust, face flushed, eyes dark, lips swollen, body trembling with every slow movement as he brings himself up and then back down. </p><p>The slide is slick and tight, pleasure so intense that John swallows a sob. Sherlock lets out a broken sound, borderline keening, and it drives John over the edge. Grabbing at Sherlock’s shoulders, he pulls him down to his chest, kissing him hard and wet as he slams his hips upward. His body, aching with the impact of their adrenaline-fuelled adventures, protests. The long muscles of his legs cramp and John growls, biting hard on Sherlock’s bottom lip, erasing the mark left behind by Erik. Sherlock gasps and cries out, muffled by John’s tongue pushing past his lips, thrusting up again despite the burn in his legs. Hands scrabbling over his shoulders, Sherlock grabs on tight, locking his arms around John’s torso, thighs trembling.</p><p>John sets a brutal rhythm, hips lifting to meet Sherlock’s sloppy downward movements. Sweat pools on his stomach, a mixture of his own and Sherlock’s, skin sticking and hot with exertion. The sound of their breathing mingles, rises in an uneven cacophony. Pressure builds at the base of John’s spine, a white-hot burn searing over his nerve-endings, setting his skin on fire.</p><p>Sherlock’s teeth sink into his shoulder and John shouts, his climax ripping through him with the force of a breaking wave, slamming over him and washing away his coherency. Dimly aware of his own voice, babbling <em>love </em>and <em> Sherlock </em>and <em>oh, god, yes</em>, he focuses enough to reach between them and take Sherlock in hand. John strokes him in long, tight pulls, shuddering through his own orgasm as Sherlock twitches against his chest and falls into his own, calling out John’s name, his lips against John’s salty skin. </p><p>When he comes back to himself, the white-out fading from his vision, John blinks up at the dark ceiling, limbs vibrating with the chemicals washing through his brain. Sherlock, panting, is a mess of loose muscles and sweat-damp hair on top of him. Eyes closed, his fingers trace over and over the gunshot wound on John’s shoulder, tracking the near-death experience that brought them together so long ago. </p><p>Still staring up at the ceiling, thoughts filtering into areas less based in desperate lust, John murmurs, “Really surprised there were supplies for that in your bedside table.” Glancing at the bed beneath them, he takes in the mussed sheets, formerly clean, now smelling of sweat and sex and the two of them. “How—”</p><p>Sherlock shifts, letting out a soft moan as John slides out of him. He presses his face into John’s damp neck and says, “Mycroft.” </p><p>John pulls a face. “Okay, while I’m grateful, I <em> really </em> don’t want to think about your brother right now.” </p><p>He can feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin. “Agreed.” Sitting up, Sherlock looks down at him, his eyes twin glimmers in the dark. “I think that should be a rule—no Mycroft talk in bed.” </p><p>“You just said his name,” John points out. Sherlock rolls his eyes and tilts to the side, reaching back to slip the condom off of John’s softened cock. Tying it closed, he drops it into the trash beside the bed, settling back onto John’s chest. There is sticky, drying come between them—Sherlock’s—and John pulls a face before wrapping a careful arm around Sherlock’s bandaged back.  </p><p>“Yes, well,” Sherlock sniffs, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Needs must.” </p><p>John chuckles, looking back at the ceiling. His fingers card through Sherlock’s hair, brow furrowing in thought. Raising his head, Sherlock touches his face with gentle fingertips.</p><p>“It’s real, John. You’re not dreaming.” His voice is soft and John’s eyes drop to his face. He takes in Sherlock’s earnest expression and the firm line of his mouth before smiling.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says. “I know.” Tilting forward, pressing his nose in sweaty hair, John breathes deep, filling his lungs with Sherlock. “I know.” He smiles, tightening his arms. “Welcome home.”</p><p>
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  <b> <em>fin.</em> </b>
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